The End of the Road

As you no doubt know (due to the worldwide celebration), my birthday was a couple of days ago.  Please, hold your applause.  On second thought, let's have an ovation...for my mom.  My wont to procrastinate was forged in the womb and I simply could not be bothered to make the long journey down the birth canal.  With all the food and sleep I could possibly want I saw no reason to leave, and consequently wound up overstaying my welcome.  In our modern culture where women want to be induced as soon as they can't fit into their skinny jeans it's hard to imagine that my mom's doctor let me linger in my gelatinous nirvana for days past my due date.  17 days, to be exact.  Carrying all 9 pounds, 6 ounces of me around in the sweltering heat while tending to my not yet 3-year old sister and my 14-month old brother couldn't have been a highlight of the pregnancy.  So bravo, Mom!  I should give you gifts on August 1st for not ditching me at the hospital after all I put you through.

I always spend some time reflecting on my life on my birthday and as I age I also spend some time calculating how many more of them I'm likely to have.  It's ludicrous, really.  I know all too well that life doesn't much care about actuarial tables.  After losing my brother when he was 36, grieving with family over babies we never got to meet and watching friends say goodbye to people they love way too soon I know that there is no guarantee of reaching tomorrow, much less the year 2054.  I can make choices to try to keep The Reaper (no, not you Tom) at bay as long as possible.  But there's nothing saying I won't be struck by lightning next week or killed in a stampede of resentful elementary school students on the first day of school.

Knowing that the end of my life could come at any time has given me reason to make some decisions.  The will has been written and the executor chosen.  I would have made a list of who gets my possessions but I've made it my life's work to rid myself of much of the "stuff" that clutters our home.  If there's something you've had your eye on, I suggest you get down to Goodwill as soon as possible.   I've designated guardians for my kids in case Troy and I go at the same time.  I've worked hard the past 12 years to cultivate the illusion that the boys aren't batshit crazy so my sister and her husband won't refuse the "honor" of raising them.  The dog is still up for grabs though; there's some crazy you just can't hide.

I know that when I die I want a two-part funeral.  First, a somber and emotional affair where you will be expected to cry your face off.  Tell everyone that you don't know if you can go on without me and talk me up like I was a cross between Mother Teresa, Stephen Hawking, Kristin Chenoweth and Megan Fox.  Drink copiously to dull the pain.  Second, a dance party!  Hook my iPod to some speakers, skip past all the Sade, and get down with your bad self.  Swap spit with a stranger.  Remember that one time when we did that one thing that made us laugh till we vomited.  Drink copiously to dull the pain.  Please don't move on to part two until everyone is done with part one.  There's nothing festive about being mid-dance and slipping in a pool of tears and mucus.

There will be no graveside service because there will be no grave.  I cannot bear the thought of being buried.  Coincidentally, cremation doesn't appeal either, which leaves me with slim options.  What I'd really like is for my body to be laid out in the forest somewhere and become an unexpected buffet for the woodland creatures.  Seriously.  But unless I die in an avalanche or while on the run from the Snow White huntsman this seems unlikely.  So what I intend to do is donate my body to a university for use either by medical or forensic students.  No one really wants it now, but once it's dead I expect a lot of interest.  Plus, I've watched countless episodes of 'CSI' over the years so I totally know all the ins and outs of laying still and being carved up.  I'll have to be buried or cremated eventually, but by then there will be no danger that I'm just sleeping really deeply.

Generally, I think life is pretty swell and I'm not in any hurry to leave it.  While I'm here I donate blood, give fantastic hugs, make people laugh, read to my kids, bake nummy stuff for family, and listen to people I love for as long as they need.   I can also be a raving, selfish, tactless, emotionally immature bitch.   I hope when I get to the end of the road the good I've done will far outweigh the bad.  Not because I have any expectation of an afterlife I have to earn (that's a whole other blog) but because no matter how many birthdays I have, I consider each one a precious gift, to be cherished and used wisely.

Things I Will Not Miss Should They Disappear Tomorrow

There are many things in the world that I will not miss if I wake up tomorrow morning (...ok...afternoon) and find them gone forever.  Brutality, hatred, hypocrisy, poverty, dishonesty.  I hope most of you concur that these things are highly un-diggable.  Outside of the things that sane and reasoned people agree are yucky, each of us has a very personal set of things we find unpleasant but that don't bother other people in the least.  In my case, some of these are: any "food" from White Castle, platform shoes, beer, slapstick comedy, and the vast majority of professional sports.  Some of these things I actively dislike, others I'm just indifferent to and my life would be no poorer for their sudden removal from the universe.

There is also a long list of people I could do without, including Michele Bachmann and Sarah Palin (though I'm pretty sure they're really the same person), Martha Stewart and her ubiquitous wares, Brangelina and their 86 kids and the lady who does the Slumberland TV ads because her voice is just So. Fucking. Annoying.  And Denny Hecker.  I mean, the money isn't yours, man.  Let it go.  I think I'll save that list for another blog because I'll probably need a little time to figure out how to bitch about them without sounding like I'm planning their deaths. 

If I allowed my naturally cynical side to take over, I could come up with a never-ending list of things I wouldn't miss.  However, I'll limit myself to 5 items...this time.

• Seafood and fish:  I know you want me to like it.  I want me to like it too, because I know how nutritious it is and I'm wary of the rancid burps that apparently come along with taking a fish oil supplement.  But more than that, I wish I liked seafood to get people the hell off my back about it.  "You don't like shrimp or crab?  Oh my God!  How...how can this be?  Rob, come here!  You'll never believe...Suzanne doesn't like seafood!  Oh, what a crying shame."  People keep telling me how nummy lobster is or how I can prepare fish so it doesn't taste "fishy".  I'm not saying you shouldn't eat it, just that you shouldn't eat it within 50 yards of me.  The simple fact is that even the suggestion of a hint of a whiff of a smell makes me gag.  If you ever want to torture me - and believe me, you will - prepare me a dinner of crab cakes, clam chowder, shrimp salad, salmon rolls and a nice big slab of walleye.  Threaten me with lemon meringue pie and coffee for dessert and I'll do whatever you want.  Mission accomplished.
• Wasps:  Granted, I don't know a lot of people who are fans, particularly those who are allergic.  I have only been stung twice in my life, both times on the playground at work.  Don't think I didn't try to get some worker's comp out of it.  The first time was three years ago and I kind of had it coming.  I felt something in between my sleeve and my upper arm and when I tried lift the fabric to make an exit for him to escape safely, the little bastard got me.  Clearly I was asking for it.  The second time was two years ago and I was assaulted in a sneak attack on my butt.  It was totally unprovoked and more than a little embarrassing since I went around massaging my own ass for the rest of the day.  As if that weren't enough, Ian was stung in the neck seven times when he was about five.  To this day he demands we immediately vacate the area anytime a bug appears on the scene.  I'm getting tired of apologizing to the fireflies for our rudeness.
• Perfume samples in the Sunday paper:  Yes, I'm touchy.  It aggravates me when I pick up the Macy's circular and multiple nausea-inducing samples fall out.  They float around and defy capture all the while spewing their odors and singeing my nose hairs.  While this may be useful in the years ahead, it's not something I have need of right now.  The closest I getting to wearing perfume is using a citrus scented body wash and even that is only for special occasions like royal weddings and Wayne Newton concerts.  I generally don't care for the way perfume smells on other people, either.  I work with a couple of women (and one man) who wear fragrance regularly and smell heavenly.  The rest of Earth's population, not so much.  Besides, I really have no desire to smell like Paris Hilton, classy though she is.  The only possible good that could come from these little odor-soaked papers is if we all save them and then place them strategically around the Tropics Trail at the Minnesota Zoo.  Because as nasty as perfume is, it still beats monkey pee.
• Ewwww words: Many people seem to have words they'd like to see obliterated from the vocabulary of the human race.  "Moist" is a popular one (hi JM!).  I don't remember the genesis of my revulsion, but I cannot hear the words "tender" or "caress" without  wanting to slice off my ears.  It doesn't matter what context "tender" is used in: tender kiss, tender steak, tender joints.  All bad.  I know Jackson Browne has a song titled 'Tender is the ..... something, but I don't know what because as soon as I hear my trigger word the radio station gets changed.  "Caress" just seems so creepy to me.  Is it like groping?  Is it like fondling? Is it like getting a too-personal massage from your cousin Dean?  I can't ever buy Caress body wash.  I can't imagine having to see that word as I'm washing my lady parts.  Upon reading or hearing the phrase "tender caress" I get the vapors and have to take to my bed for a solid week.
• Hard candy:  Butterscotch lovers of the world have nothing to fear from me.  If it ain't chocolate, I ain't interested.  Hard candy is, frankly, confusing.  Do I chew it, do I suck it, do I suck it then chew it?  Ugh.  It's all too much.  Then there's my aversion to the way the inside of my mouth feels and tastes after oh, say a Jolly Rancher, for example.  Puckery and sour is no way to go through your day.  My grandma used to keep Wint-O-Green Lifesavers in her purse and dole them out when we kids would get on her nerves.  Which was pretty much all the time as I recall, so I've had enough of those to last me till my dying day.  Probably well into the afterlife, too.  Also, does it strike anyone else as weird that they smell exactly the same as Ben Gay?  I feel like candy should not taste like a topical analgesic.  I will make exceptions for borderline candies like red vines and melty mints.  Though not chocolate, they are still pretty darn tasty and will continue to receive special consideration until such time as I arbitrarily deem them icky.

Here's hoping your day is free of whatever irks you, annoys you or grosses you out!

I'm a Success...at Failing

I don't work during the summer due to my job as Peon Extraordinaire at an elementary school.  I feel guilty about not using my college education, but this is balanced nicely by the fact that I get three kick-ass months off to do as I please.  My kids are old enough to be quite independent, so 12 solid weeks to devote to losing weight are mine for the taking.  So obviously I am chugging along, knocking off pounds left and right.  Right?  Right???  Ummmmm......not to change the subject, but that's a great shirt you're wearing.  I've always loved that color on you.

Let me lay it out for you.  My first two weeks of working out and eating well went splendidly.  I was the queen of fruits, vegetables, whole grains, lean meat, aerobic exercise and actually taking my thyroid medication as directed.  I didn't weigh myself because I tend to want to see 20 pound losses over a 3-day period.  It turns out this is a tad on the unrealistic side outside of NBC's The Biggest Loser.  So I went more by how I felt and how my clothes fit.  The pants weren't a whole lot looser after 14 days, but I found I didn't need a crane to hoist myself out of our low-slung car, I wasn't winded toweling myself off after a shower and my joints didn't cry themselves to sleep at night.

Then came the Fourth of July weekend.  It started with the ice cream cone at Lake Harriet, continued through the butter-topped popcorn and Icee at the movies and concluded with a frosting-laden concoction straight from that purveyor of all things evil: Byerly's.  I started slacking off on exercising.  I really, really, really like to sleep and instead of getting up to work out before the boys' swimming lesson, I'd lay in until the last possible moment and then whisk them off to the pool.  Having skipped breakfast - against the advice of every third magazine article ever written - I'd be ravenous when we returned home around noon.  After eating lunch I wouldn't feel like exercising, I'd get busy doing anything else and voila!  Each day came to a close with very little in the way of physical activity.  Apart from getting up to pry my kids apart when they were beating the shit out of each other, of course.

So instead of getting into some of the smaller clothes that mock me every time I open the closet door, I found myself once again at swanky Savers, buying extra large tops and size 18 capris to get me through the summer.  I refuse to buy undergarments there (duh) so I'm making do with the bras I have even though it's like using dental floss and two teabags to immobilize a pair of swinging cantaloupes.  I love to shop for clothes when they look good on me, but when I'm fat I refuse to spend money on anything nice.  Because sadly, paying more doesn't mean getting a garment that makes my butter-topped abdomen or frosting-laden thighs look any better. 

I really do enjoy eating fresh, healthy foods and feeling that rush of endorphins when I engage in vigorous movement.  But you know what?  I also really like chips, fried chicken, cake, Coke and laying around reading Entertainment Weekly.  (Come on, you know my encyclopedic knowledge of the celebrity world has helped you out of a tight spot at some point in our acquaintance.)  I need to get it through my brain that indulging myself translates directly into flabby arms and a shocking number of chins.  I need to embrace the fact that better choices will lead me to a place where I can see my collarbones again.  I have seven weeks left of summer and a million reasons to do just that.

Going for My Master's Degree

Yes, indeed.  I feel my putting-things-off skill set is pretty sharp but I think I can take it one step further.  As soon as I can find a university that offers a master's program in procrastination, I intend to fill out the application.  Maybe I'll do it later that night when the boys are in bed and the house is quiet.  Or better yet the next morning when I'm well-rested.  Of course, the weekend is always a good time to work on projects like that.  I'll have to see what's on the calendar.

See what I'm getting at here?

I have always been a procrastinator and have always wished I wasn't.  I'm a world-class list maker and am fairly organized, but struggle with motivation.  I have short-term and long-term "To Do" lists with one of the items on the latter being "make a bucket list."  As long as I have a notion of what I'm supposed to be doing, not doing it is somewhat more comfortable.  I do love the feeling of crossing things off those lists, but it doesn't happen very often.  I mean...ironing?  No, thank you.

I remember starting major junior high projects the night before they were due.  (Designing a house?  Really?  SO not interesting to someone who at that point was planning a career as a kept woman.)  By the time I was in college this had devolved into getting up at 4 a.m. to write papers due at 10.  There sat I at the typewriter, banging out whatever mostly coherent sentences popped into my brain.  Rough drafts are for suckers.  Getting excellent grades with this method was just positive reinforcement to watch "All My Children" rather than studying for that heinous Econ test.

Life is short.  I get that.  There are so many things I want to do: learn to play the cello, re-finish my kitchen cabinets, find opportunities to sing in public, work on my book, bring democracy to China, find out what's really going on with Donald Trump's "hair".  But even when something is as important as losing this extra weight I have and getting healthy, it's really easy to find something - anything - else to occupy me.  I'm looking at you, Facebook.

I attribute part of my issue with motivation to depression.  It's something I've struggled with for the past several years and paired with my natural tendency to procrastinate it makes for a mighty obstacle.  A recent switch in medication is giving me a little more energy and focus, but I know it's mostly up to me to make better choices about how I spend my time. 

I admire people who have energy and motivation or at least fake it really well.  If you are one of these people, please feel free to school me in these foreign concepts.  I may not ever use one of your suggestions, but at least I can cross "ask friends about motivational techniques" off my list.

P.S. This post was written as a delay tactic.  I'm already slacking off on working out and I know I need to get my butt into some unsightly workout gear and go do some sweating.  And I will, right after I check my Facebook page.

Chicks Dig Me

I'm going to state up front that I'm not a social anthropologist.  I'm not even an anti-social anthropologist.  There is probably empirical evidence out in the world of human study that refutes what I'm about to write, but here's my blanket generalization. Having been fat, thin and every pound in between I have noticed a definite difference in the way people interact with me. 

Let me be the first, or the first on this blog anyway, to say that I judge people based on the way they look.  I'm not proud of it, I know I shouldn't...but every time I see you I am likely sizing up what you're wearing, how your hair looks, whether you've gained or lost any weight.  And those earrings!  What were you thinking?  You're thinking I'm terrible and wondering if I'm really that insecure.  Ummmmm...yeah!  I'm constantly measuring myself against you and most of the time finding myself wanting.

But here's the thing.  I don't think I'm the only one doing it.  Because when I'm fat I have very little problem with other women.  When I'm thin I find them cooler, more aloof and not nearly as vulernable.  Maybe it's because I put out a different vibe or maybe I'm seeing them through a different lens.  Or maybe they just don't want their men looking at my fine booty.  No really, it was fine once for about 30 minutes.

Men treat me differently depending on my weight too, but big surprise, right?  At the end of my senior year in high school I dropped some weight, not realizing I'd developed a thyroid disease.  Suddenly guys were coming out of the woodwork, even ones I'd wanted to date since sophomore year but who didn't feel "that way" about me.  Too bad they had to destroy my thyroid with radiactive iodine.  I could have skinnied my way through life.  What's a little vomiting, sweating, shaking, insomnia, loose bowels and palpitations in exchange?  As the years have gone on, I've determined that the magic weight at which I become invisible to men is 180.  179 and I get the up-and-down look, 180 and "POOF"!  Gone.

Today Ian and I played tennis for 45 minutes and I walked for an hour.  I am amazed at how supremely out of shape I am, until I realize that the extra weight I'm carrying is equivalent to Reid's entire body.  Wow.  So tomorrow is another day and I'll keep on keepin' on in the hopes that someday men will see me again and women will become bitchy.  I can't wait.

What's that burning sensation?

So, if you know me personally, you fall into one of three categories:

1)  You've only known me a short while and think this is how I've always looked...

You think I'm obese and you are correct, because you have eyes and I am in fact about 463 pounds heavier than is healthy.

2)  You've known me for a few years and know that I used to look like this:

This was taken in November of 2007 and yes, I still own and wear those pants though my thighs don't look nearly as lovely in them now.  People who met me when I looked like this wonder what the hell has happened to me but are too polite to ask.

3)  You've known me a good chunk of my life and know that my weight goes up and down more than a carousel horse:

Up:

Down:

Here's the thing.  I don't want to be fat.  I don't enjoy it.  Sure, eating whatever I want is super awesome in the moment but the long-term result is that I can work up a pretty decent sweat by loading the dishwasher.  I've lost all my flexibility, stamina and ability to wear cute underwear. 

I have at least 90 pounds to lose.  Don't you dare say "Oh no!  No!  Surely not that much!  Maybe a pound or two but you really look great!"  That would be sweet of you, but I'm pretty sure you were brought up not to lie.  I weighed 141 in the above "skinny" photos.  This is the same weight I was at in high school when I felt enormous.  Of course, it didn't help that my boyfriend was 20 pounds lighter and had legs that resembled swizzle sticks wrapped in the thinnest layer of beige tissue paper ever.  141 sounds pretty great from where I'm sitting, which is in front of the computer.  At 230 pounds.

Now, full disclosure.  Most of my adult life I've swung somewhere between 155 and 200.  I've lost significant amounts of weight several times by eating well and exercising and gained back every fucking ounce as soon as I stop doing those two things.  Getting down to 141 took a lot of hard work, but it was also partially the result of having health issues and an ensuing anxiety disorder.  When you feel your whole digestive system shutting down after 3 bites of yogurt it's really hard to eat enough to stay fat.  But I got past the anxiety thing with medication, therapy and time and was able to get really healthy. 

Then my brother died.

Am I an emotional eater?  Did you not read the part about me weighing 230 pounds?  Even though I know all the health risks of being obese, I've spent every day since Mark died eating myself happy.  Or at least mildly content.  But I have kids and I don't want to wind up like he did: gone because of a sedentary life, too much crap food and a kicky little clotting disorder that can produce an embolism that will take you out in under an hour. 

This blog isn't going to be all about me working on losing weight, but I will write about it when I need to, so aren't you lucky that it's a free country and if that kind of thing doesn't interest you, you can go back to whatever porn you were looking at before you came here?

So what IS that burning sensation?  It's that weird feeling you get when you exercise for the first time in a long time.  It's the feeling of blood flowing in my legs after the hour-long walk I took today.  It's also the feeling in my gut about getting healthy and getting back to who I'm supposed to be.  Today is the first day...so tomorrow won't be my last.

Thanks for reading.