Groundhog Day

I have followed a pattern my entire adult life. 

The world tells me that I should be unhappy with the way I look. It's hard not to listen. But every now and then I break through it and decide: screw that action.  I'm big. So what. I can be the best looking big girl it's possible for me to be. This shift in attitude usually leads to a shopping spree. Out with the outfits designed to most effectively hide my bulk -- and me -- from the world and in with the outfits designed to fit and flatter and make me feel great. This shopping spree inevitably leads me to the makeup counter where I decide that an updated wardrobe deserves an updated overall look. New clothes and new makeup lead to renewed confidence and I start to feel good about who I am. When I feel good I am more active. I am able to completely accept and indulge -- almost celebrate -- who I (temporarily) unapologetically am.

This is a very good place.

I ALWAYS end up at the gym from this place. 

This is also, of course, good.

Because I love lifting.  I really, really do. But it is hard to drag oneself to the gym -- even for something one loves -- when one feels frumpy and lumpy and worthless. But when I feel good, it's one of the first things I want to do.

Then I lose a little weight. My proud new wardrobe becomes loose and I start to replace key items in a smaller size. This is exhilarating! This is the point in the pattern where I stop being content with myself. I don't want to lose a little weight, I want to lose a lot of weight. I want to lose ALL the weight! Maybe if I change my eating habits... 

I am no longer unapologetic or accepting at this point, but I am motivated and encouraged. I can do this! I start projecting. If I lost THIS much weight and THIS many sizes in THIS amount of time, then by THIS date I should reach my goal.

Whoa.

Let's backtrack for a moment.

Shouldn't the goal be to be happy? Didn't I reach that goal earlier in the pattern? The part where I was -- um -- happy with myself and with my life? Isn't that ALWAYS the goal? But by the time I get to this stage I am no longer happy with myself as I am. I am, however, pretty sure that I can get myself to a place that will make me happy if I just work hard enough. I'm not happy NOW, but I can BE happy. I'll DESERVE to be happy when I'm in a smaller dress size. Oh, boy -- I sure will be happy then!

So my workouts become less fun and more -- well -- work. Meals are obsessed over. They are still delicious -- I'm not a TOTAL martyr -- but food becomes almost all I think about. I am eating one meal while thinking about the next. There is no spontaneity at this point, and if there is it is horrifying rather than delightful.

The scale moves a little, but not much.

And then it stops.

We're not talking about a plateau for a week or a month or a couple weeks or a couple months. It stops. I up the exercise. The scale won't move. I cut out more food. The scale won't move. Nothing works. 

I become desperate.

Then sad.

Then desperately sad.

I don't want to lift -- why bother?

I want all the carbs -- who the hell cares?

Quickly quickly quickly I regain all the weight I've lost plus a little for good measure.

Eventually, I start to accept myself.

And the cycle begins again.

This cycle has repeated itself more times than I care to tell you.

This time, though -- this time it is a little different.

Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, I learn little lessons each time the same events repeat themselves. 

This time, I never completely stopped lifting. I backed off. I didn't hit it with the intensity with which I hit it when all is well, but I never quit. I gained back a third of what I'd lost then stopped. I stopped before I gained it all. I stopped well before I gained it all and then some. 

Cool.

Lately I've been buying clothes like it's my job. And I've noticed that I linger in the beauty aisle -- I've brought home new eyeshadow, lipstick and nail polish in the past couple weeks. Could I be getting back on at the top of the cycle before I completely bottom out? It would appear that I am. This has never happened before. The cycle is changing.

Woo and might I add a hearty Hoo.

Now.

The trick will be to stay here -- to stay here at the top -- exercising and eating well and dressing in a way that makes me happy and generally feeling good without falling into the formerly inevitable traps that await me.

Can I do it?

I hope so.

If not this time, maybe the next.

Like Mr. Murray, I am damned tired of repeating the same cycle over and over. It's stupid and it's futile and life is too short.

It's time to learn my lessons and get it right.

All the World's Indeed a Stage

When things get particularly out of control with my life, one of the coping mechanisms I turn to is to picture the events as they are unfolding as if they were a movie. Maybe that's crazy, maybe that's egotistical maybe it's a form of disassociation but it has often helped me to gain perspective. Would I be rooting for my character? Would I like her? Quite often the answer is no.

While that bothers me immensely, it doesn't always result in a change in my behavior. Real life isn't the movies. Traits that come across as plucky, quirky and delightful in the movies are often just plain weird in real life. And NO ONE wants to watch a movie about a mature adult making rational decisions. It's boring. When that character exists, it is presented as a stern and oppressive foil to the free spirits that surround it. The spirits that we root for. We root for the characters who live on the edge. We want them to be enough like us to be recognizable but they need to take chances we can't, won't or shouldn't take.

Lately I am certain that if my life was a movie and you were watching it, you would be rooting for everyone but me. I'm surrounded by people who are living -- or at least pursuing -- the lives they want. They are plucky, quirky and delightful. You would love them. They take risks; I advise caution. They pursue their interests;. I gripe about practical concerns. I resent being cast as the straight-laced repressed middle-aged resentful fat woman. Is it bad form to use two versions of the same word in one sentence? Technically, yes. But it's a word that would be used multiple times in describing my character. I resentfully resent being resented.

So I think -- if I were writing the story, how could I give my character a redemption arc? How could I -- as the playwright -- manipulate things so that this character was able to have her needs met without squelching the enthusiasm of those around her? 

I'm just not that talented as a playwright. Clearly this character needs to be less of a bitch if she is to gain public approval. (Or more, if we're going for the anti-hero angle.) But she can't just roll over and play dead -- she can't be given a supporting part in her own story. Nobody likes that character. I certainly don't.

I don't have the answers yet. The rest of this story is unwritten at this point. But isn't that exciting? It could go anywhere! I've cast the role in my head, though. The actress has the convictions of Susan Sarandon with eyes that are determined and maybe more than a little bit crazy. She will defend her children like a mother bear and dance with her friends with wild abandon. She is non-traditional yet classic and not too hard on the eyes. She'll also have a little Sandra Bullock in her -- she's in over her head and frazzled and the worse the situation becomes the more adorable she appears. Obviously there's a little Melissa McCarthy in the mix as well. She's sassy and brassy and cusses fluently, but more importantly she's the current fat girl. And whoever played me would have to be a fat girl. It shouldn't matter, but it does. It puts a different spin on every situation. These are not necessarily my favorite actresses, but I think they would combine well to play the part. Now I just have to feed this gorgeous hybrid some saucy lines and turn things around for her. 

Wish me luck.

Everybody Sings the Blues Sometimes

On my way to Kroger this morning, I was struck by the particular blueness of the wildflowers on the side of the road. ( I think if I ever searched my posts for all of the times I've used variations of the phrase "on my way to Kroger" I would die of embarrassment. Or sheer depression. But I've digressed.) These flowers -- some might call them weeds, because they are unplanned and not carefully placed in carefully tended gardens, but I've always liked wild, unplanned flowers more than I like cultivated ones -- really called to me today. Perhaps it was the way the early morning sun was lighting them -- giving them an almost unearthly glow and definition. Perhaps I was just in the right frame of mind to be beckoned by something wild and beautiful. For whatever reason, their role in the landscape took on more importance than it perhaps deserved as I made my emergency run for half and half.

I mused on their lovely hue -- and how it resembled the blue of the sky when the sky is such that you can't help but be happy. Blue flowers, I thought, blue skies, blue jeans, blue moon, blue blue my world is blue, blue jean baby, somebody turned the blues on me, I got the Sunday morning out of half and half running to Kroger blues.

Would you think I was making it up for the sake of the story to say that I parked next to a blue van when I got there? Because I'm totally not.

We almost bought a blue car this week.

I am not a car chick. Tom will argue this point -- because I turn to goo at the sight of old muscle cars or new muscle cars that look like old muscle cars or even some high end performance sport cars. They appeal to me on an almost visceral level for one and only one reason -- they are beautiful. My attraction is entirely superficial. I like the sexy, powerful lines. Open the hood to show off the hooziewhatsits and that's where a true car chick or car dude will start to show signs of what often appears to be physical arousal. I'll take a glance at it then wander back to reverently touch the upholstery or the dashboard. True car chicks and dudes are cringing -- amazed that I don't want to wax rhapsodic about torques or valves or any other number of things that hold absolutely no interest or meaning for me whatsoever except for the fact that they're housed in a bitchin' chassis.

My favorite favorite, bar none, is a Mustang. Make it a convertible and I become sort of incoherent.

My Accord is on its last legs and my life is -- hmmmm -- not where I'd expected it to be in these, the middle years. Tom thought maybe putting me in my dream car would put me back on the road to things making sense. I do like that Tom. Long story short, we ended up test-driving a couple Mustangs that we thought were in our price range. Both were blue. Like sunny skies and wild flowers and everything that is good and right and sweet and true. But when we actually brought ourselves out of the clouds and thought about it we realized that it is not quite the right time for us. I could run to Kroger and pick up half and half, maybe, but I couldn't haul the groceries for the four of us for the week. I could get the girls to their appointments and lessons and practices, but it would be cramped and uncomfortable for them. It just wasn't worth pushing our budget to its absolute limit so that I could soothe what is probably essentially a midlife crisis. 

Opting out was the right thing to do and we both slept better once the decision was made.

And we did just buy an uh-maze-ing new tandem which we should take possession of by the middle of this week. Tom says we'll need new shoes and helmets. Maybe they come in blue.

My Three Gripes

Since becoming a stay-at-home again, I have had to make a lot of adjustments. My self-esteem took a hit, my financial situation took a hit and my schedule took a hit. I am actually busier now than I was when I was working. The major difference (aside from the aforementioned hits), is that now I get to watch TV between chores.

We gave up cable years ago and dedicated ourselves to Netflix, but recently friends gave us rabbit ears so we can get a few channels. It's enough.

I had a little routine for my daytime watching, saving all the Netflix business for when Tom gets home. In case you're interested, my days looked something like this: Local News, My Three Sons, Donna Reed, That Girl, I Love Lucy, Leave It To Beaver, Rachael Ray, Anderson Cooper, Local News, Days of Our Lives, The Talk, Katie, Ellen DeGeneres. It's not like I watch all of those shows straight through every day -- I don't. Ever. But that's the schedule. That's what's on when I'm home. And to continue to be clear -- just because it's on, doesn't mean I'm sitting passively watching it. I do knock out a chore or two throughout the day. And when I AM sitting, I'm knitting. And you know what? I don't have to defend myself to you. It's not like every minute of your every day is filled to the brim with scholarly pursuits. If it was, you wouldn't be reading this.

Anyway.

Most of it is just background noise, but I almost always sat down and attended to My Three Sons and Donna Reed. My Three Sons is an old favorite, so there's a nostalgia factor, but there's more to it than that. First of all, like me, Ernie is adopted. Just like in real life, this is totally not a big deal. It is not ignored, but neither is it emphasized. It just is. I love that. But Ernie isn't my favorite, oh no. Like a good parent, I like all of the sons equally. The sons are not without their charm, but that Steve Douglas...  Now there's a man worth watching. What I love the most about his character is his ability to put everyone he encounters at ease. Sometimes he does it with a little twinkle in his eye, but he always does it. He is my parenting role model. He allows the boys to make their mistakes and pay the consequences in a spirit of gentle lovingness. He is the Mister Rogers of TV fathers. I want to be the sort of parent and friend that Steve Douglas is. I'm not. But I really want to.

And speaking of role models -- next on my viewing agenda is the venerable Donna Reed. I have never watched Donna Reed before. It was a little before my time when it was first run and I always sort of thought of it like a Leave It To Beaver sort of sappy salute to a perfect time that didn't really exist. I thought she was the quintessential submissive housewife and I really wanted no part of it. What a happy surprise it has been to discover that I was wrong. 

Of course ALL of the sitcoms mentioned also give me the added bonus of teaching me a valuable social lesson every day. Thanks to my viewing habits, I now know that it's wrong to lie to or manipulate or use people. I know that family is more important than money. And, thanks to Lucy and Donna and June I know that just because I'm unemployed doesn't mean I can't wear a nice new fit-and-flare dress and fix my hair. Even if Ricky -- I mean, Tom -- thinks I already have enough dresses.

So this morning, after dropping Liv off at school, I hurried home to pour my coffee and enjoy my daily dose of gentle wholesomeness with Steve and his boys.

I was not pleased when the familiar instrumental did not involve three animated sets of shoes tapping their toes and junk. MeTV had changed their schedule without consulting me, which seems rude, since they have Me right in their name. Family Affair is not the same. It's not even a good substitute. Now, if I want to spend a half hour feeling reassured by Fred MacMurray, I'll have to do it at 5:30. Which is, I suppose, a more pleasant way to wake up than the Local News. I'll adjust, but I won't be happy about it.

I looked into the rest of the changes -- I Love Lucy has been subbed out for The Lucy Show, which is NOT the same thing.

*pouts*

I adjusted to staying at home and to a new normal. Fine. But now I have to adjust my TV viewing habit, too? Enough. 

Uncle Bill is no Steve Douglas.

Mr. French is no Uncle Charley.

And I? Am crying uncle.

There Is Beauty In It

Isn't this pretty?

I took it on my deck last night.

I bet you think I have a beautiful deck.

I sure was able to take an awfully pretty picture there, and everyone knows the camera doesn't lie.

That picture was taken with a macro-lens focusing in very closely on a tiny little part of this:

That's right. To the embarrassment of everyone in my family and, no doubt, the chagrin of many of my neighbors, weeds grow right up through my deck. It is wild and ugly and out of control.

Kind of like my life has been recently.

And yet -- when you take the time to look really, really closely -- just like the weeds on my deck -- there is beauty in it.

At first glance, it's a mess. Things that I do not nurture or welcome are growing and tangling around themselves and ensnaring everything in their path. They are manipulating the environment and dominating it. I cut them down, but they come back. They render me helpless.

Things only make sense when I slow down and accept them for what they are -- when I take the time to sort through the mess and magnify and emphasize the tiny instances of unexpected beauty.

Because they are there.

They are always, always, always there.

Day 100

It's the 100th day of 2013. 100 is a nice, round, even number. Why wait until December to reflect upon the year that was? I am a reflective sort of chickadee -- I'm going to use the 100 day mark as an excuse to reflect.

I know it is the 100th day of the year because of the photo a day project I have embarked upon along with a couple friends. I tag my daily offerings pic a day, but one of my friends has numbered hers which -- in retrospect -- was a really good idea and if I ever do this again it is one I will almost certainly use. Her photo yesterday was day 99, so being the smarty-pants that I am I was pretty quickly able to surmise that today would be 100.

This project has been a real learning experience for me and a lot of fun.

Originally I intended to be in every picture. I thought it would force me to do something worth documenting every day. I also thought it would allow me to get used to the way I look in pictures, because looking at pictures of myself has always been a sort of shocking experience. I figured if I was ever going to get comfortable with myself, I better know what I look like. At the 100 day mark I must admit that I strayed from the goal of being in every picture pretty quickly. It turned into a documentation of my life rather than of me. Nobody wants to look at a new picture of the same old person every day. Ain't nobody got time for that. Plus, I think it portrayed me as someone who was really into herself and that was not how I wanted to present at all. So I branched out and took pictures of other people and of things and of places and I think the project is better for it. I still make sure to get myself in there on a pretty regular basis.

Some things I have learned from this:

When I posted this pic in early January, I got a pretty positive response. It documented my first time buying jeans in a straight size store since I don't even remember when. People said nice things. I said this:

I really ought to learn to wear makeup -- and I have such healthy DARK hair -- it wouldn't kill me to spend a few minutes styling it -- and I need a better fitting bra -- and I still have a crap-ton of weight to lose...

Tom called me out on that comment -- as he tends to do when I get too self-deprecating -- but after I wrote it I realized that (almost) ALL of those things were in my control.

So I got a haircut, bought some makeup, picked up some new bras (boy, was I wearing the wrong size!) and proceeded to feel a whole lot better about myself.

Thanks, pic a day!

I missed a few days -- when I was just too sad to bother -- but I quickly learned that it was a great tool for that, too -- finding something positive or beautiful or worth documenting every single day. Even on those lowest days there is something. There is always something. I forgot that a couple times in the past few weeks, but I intend to try to use it in the future to motivate myself. Visual gratefulness. Make it a goal, on a bad day, to find that one good thing -- just one, no matter how tiny -- then photograph it and post it and make it real -- make it as real as the bad things -- make it MORE real.

Or, you know, skip a day here or there.  Whatever.

100 days in I would say I am definitely well on my way to achieving my goal for this project -- recognizing myself. Embracing the flaws I can't do a thing about and working on the ones I can.

It's a process.

Here's to the next 100 days!

Interesting

If you want people to be interested in you, you must first be interesting.

This is pretty obvious advice, but fits pretty neatly into the easier said than done file.

How does one go about making oneself interesting?

I think the answer lies in reading, in learning, in doing -- in never becoming stagnant. The people I find most interesting are always trying new things. Mostly they succeed. Sometimes they fail. Always they try. They are eager and enthusiastic and learn from their failures rather than allowing them to define them.

Interesting people are interested.

Bored people are boring.

I have been bored.

More than that, I have been sad.

Not very interesting, is it?

The day-to-day has become overwhelming. Do you want to hear about it? Of course you don't. We all know what overwhelmed feels like. Nothing unique or interesting about that.

It's time to read new things -- to learn new things -- and -- most importantly -- to try new things.

I'm shaking off a long winter fog. 

I'm just, as The Boss says, tired and bored with myself.

But no more. Because it's stupid and it's boring and I have no desire to be either of those things anymore.

I will close my laptop in a few minutes. I need to throw a load of laundry in and get the kids to school and go to the gym and go to work and get a kid to an appointment and go back to work and get another kid to a practice and do a favor for a friend and all of that will take me straight to an hour before bedtime. I can spend that hour doing the same thing I always do, or I can spend it stepping out of the mundane and trying something new.

Will I?

I can't say for sure. It's a long day and just typing it out was a little exhausting. I deserve an hour to knit and watch TV. And I just might. But I also just might devote that hour to trying -- or at least reading about -- something new.

And I, my friends, am open to suggestions. You name it and I promise you that I will look into it. I just might try it. I will, of course, keep you informed.

I'm bored with being bored.

I need to shake off the mundane.

I need to be the sort of person I'd want to talk to.

I'm not that person right now.

It's not too late.