life according to me
Somehow, during the not so dog days of August this year, I thought it was time to get a dog. I know how that sounds, but please know the two are not connected. Or perhaps they are, the humidity this summer as opposed to the dry heat we’re used to saturating my perspective on daily life.
I was going to write about all of the heavy thoughts I’ve been mulling over since the election this past Tuesday and about how at a time like this I would normally feel like jumping up and down, waving flags and celebrating with sheer joy at the outcome, but I have not done that. Outside of shedding a few tears of complete relief, I have worried more about those whose votes did not gain them what I have heard described as “their” president in office come next January and not “mine.”
I keep a pretty close eye on myself.
At this point in my life, there is little reason for one day to be much different from the next unless I want it to be, and I like it like that. I like that each day has promise and possibility and that I can wallow in all of it. I look forward to every day, anticipating what each will bring with a sort of giddiness. Yes, I’m fortunate, and I’m grateful for the life I enjoy knowing others do not have the same simple joy.
I’ve gone through my closet a couple of times in the past month or so, weeding it of pieces I’ve had for years. The soft loosely fit pants I bought in both a steel grey and khaki because the trousers I normally wore to work were getting too snug around my waist and were too warm for summer. The newer navy pinstriped trousers I found on sale, with a more comfortable waistband that kept me from thinking about my expanding midsection. Three pair of my favorite Bermuda shorts I think I lived in last summer. A couple pair of ancient light-weight cargo shorts that made shrugging out of pajama bottoms so easy from one day to the next.
And then there were the jeans.
Stretchy jeans. Favorite faded jeans that had gotten too small, then happily fit again, now too big even after a good hot water washing and spin in the dryer. Big jeans purchased in desperation, only briefly worn when things were seriously getting out of hand. Dark colored trouser jeans I bought for our trip to England a year and a half ago and then outgrew. It took a year, but I managed to do it.
As I removed each piece of clothing from its hangar, I tried it on — something I detest doing. The better part of a day was spent standing in front of our mirror clad closet doors while I examined my reflection noticing sagging in the rear, or a gaping waistband. Pants easily removed with a simple tug — no unzipping necessary. As much as you might expect I’d cheer each time it happened, I didn’t. I was busy trying to ignore my practical self voice– the one that thinks about how much was paid for something worn only a few times. Or the seemingly helpful self who cautioned that a waistband wasn’t all that loose and that I may need to hang on to some things.
Just. In. Case.
Four large plastic garbage bags were filled by the time I was done and as much as I can say it felt good to realize losing 20 pounds makes a such difference, I noticed my preoccupation with other things. Things like the sizes on the clothes — many of which were 14s. Size 14s that all fit so differently from huge to still just right. Fourteens with waistbands too high and tight, and others low cut and baggy. A couple of size 12s were also too big, others too small. One size ten I could squeeze into if I thought I wanted to look like an enormous trussed chicken ready for the oven.
That was nearly five pounds ago — and counting. Every other day or so weigh-ins to document my progress have become something that can easily upset me depending on what that progress actually is. Sometimes, there seems to be no logic to it: a one and eight-tenths gain, then a two and four-tenths loss the very next morning regardless of the strict consistency I strive for with this routine. It’s maddening, catching me wanting the gratification of a particular number instead of the understanding that the big picture provides.
So I review.
Eat breakfast before 9am. Check. Alternate between eggs and veggies, whole grain cereal with a bit of fruit, or a carefully orchestrated smoothie. Check. Eat enough calories in one day. Struggle to check. Get your cardio and strength exercises done each week. Sort of check but always working on it.
All my life, I’ve thought of food, but thinking about it in this capacity at times has become exhausting. I’ve begun to notice that instead of wanting to be constructive about planning meals with creativity, I simply want to get it over with. How challenging can it be to grill a small piece of fish or lean meat and roast a vegetable? Grab a healthy snack between meals. Fire up the blender for a smoothie?
I’ve reached the halfway point — or to be more accurate — see it right in front of me, taunting me. Telling me I need to step it up. Get myself moving. But today, I’m tired and cranky. And I’ll allow myself that because staying on good course for 18 weeks, I’ve done what I set out to do. But I’ve been waking earlier than I normally do and staying up later. When I’m not careful about what I eat, I end up with too few calories in my body and feeling like I’m out of fuel, because that’s exactly what I am.
No patience, easy to rile, and seriously lacking in motivation. Flat.
But I don’t “cheat.” I use that term loosely because most understand that being on a diet implies there are rules that must be followed just so — and if they’re broken, it’s cheating. I never set out to be on a diet. I set out to change the way I live my life and feed my body.
At first, I was almost religious about eating five times a day. Three fairly even meals with a morning and afternoon snack. But as I’ve progressed, things have changed. The snacks have sort of disappeared and not by intention. I get busy and don’t think about it. Saved calories, right? That doesn’t work for me. I’ve figured that if I don’t keep the fuel steadily coming, then the whole thing breaks down. I’ve also shifted away from eating even sprouted wheat bread once in a while — toasted with a measured mound of egg or chicken curry on it. Again, this hasn’t been by design.
It’s been days that I’ve been writing this and struggling over how to say it all. When I read it over, there’s no justice served to what I’ve learned.
Perhaps it’s a lesson about my life in general. What I’ve learned must be summed up in a particular way, and because I’m not done, well then, it’s not easy to put down.
Words escape me, but I’ve taken photos just to document. Yes, photos. Each month on a given day, I subject myself to photos taken in three positions. I make a collage of sorts and date it, and each month, I compare the extent to which I’ve grown smaller. Clearly, I have. The clothes show it, the photos show it, and I can see it. I share the photos only with my husband who says he could never do it himself.
But it holds me accountable far more than loose clothing or a number on a scale. A glance in the mirror.
Yet, I’m wondering. Am I just giving in to something I’ve always said I’ve deplored?
Thin to be thin?
It’s disturbing.
Although I’ve not spent much time seeking it out, the consensus on the conclusion of 2011 seems to be more of a collective good riddance than a sigh of regret from others I’ve noticed. I don’t know that I ever feel that way about a year coming to a close — even those years less stellar than the rest — choosing instead to think about what I enjoyed about it. Or what I learned and want to remember, so ruminate over it all while I’m taking the last look at the lighted Christmas tree, or sweeping up the bits and pieces of torn wrapping paper and ribbon that escaped the first clean-up.
Noticing what has been significant in a year is important, but not because a determination of its positive or negative impact is forthcoming. It just is what it is, and like anything else that happens in a year’s time, it takes its place on the calendar. Sometimes it fills days or weeks, and others, a mere instant. But they all seem to vie for my attention — especially when I’m not occupied with something that has to be taken care of. I ruminate over them, working for some resolution.
What did I notice about 2011?
I think it was this weekend five years ago my husband orchestrated my 50th birthday party with the help of my best friend who graciously held the party at her home. It seems longer ago than five years, and considering all that has happened in that time, it qualifies as yet another of my lifetimes.
It’s been an interesting year and writing about it on July 6 is odd considering most people think about doing so on January 1 when they’re busy taking stock of their lives, yet again caught up in the idea of promising themselves the moon if only they might eat less, organize more, drink less, exercise more, want less, or earn more than they have in preceding years.
Go ahead. Just try and say that three times fast.
My reason for this reflection is to acknowledge my youngest son’s 19th birthday and with it, the conclusion of his first year of life away from home. No birthday cake and no wrapped prezzies. Out of tune renditions of Happy Birthday sung through a shared receiver. An agreed upon mini fridge for his dorm room being delivered shortly so he won’t have to walk to the corner for a snack or soda after remembering we tell him not forget to eat.
What strikes me as most significant about this past year is his adaptability. When others ask how he’s doing, we respond that he’s doing extremely well, loves San Francisco, has made friends, and is happy. He enjoys his classes, is interested in what he’s learning, and has a level head about how he’s doing performance-wise.
Those inquiring seem surprised by our assessment, and signs of that surprise lessening has coincided with an equal lessening of inquiries made. A collective huh if ever there was one.
Or, in the words of Wally and The Beav, “Go figure.”
The MoH would say I’m being irrational, but he listens to me as I blather on about it all being so curious. Not our son’s adaptability — others’ reactions to it. Perhaps everyone had their doubts. If a kid doesn’t exude hard charging in-your-face drive while he’s growing up, then the assumption is that he’s unmotivated — or even incapable, I suppose. If he’s not wielding a bat, or tackling someone on the opposing team, swinging, pedaling, spiking, serving, then maybe, just maybe he lacks muster. Stick a mirror under his nose to see if he’s breathing, I guess.
But I know better. Still waters run deep.
When I think of my youngest, I’ve come to the conclusion he quietly indulged his father and I all our fussing over him throughout his childhood. Even my mother has muttered, “Well, he has been somewhat sheltered.” But bear in mind that much of the fussing was our attempts at not acting like we were fussing instead of actually fussing which had to be comical on most days, exhausting others. He endured it — and us — with patience, grace, and a quiet but determined focus to carry on with his interests his way. The occasional flat-browed silence following the semi-terse exchanges one expects between a teenager and his parents notwithstanding, of course.
He continues to indulge us, tolerating requests to have an online chat at a particular time on a specific day, numerous texts from his father (I lack that function on my cell, lucky kid), and horror of all horrors to many others his age, I’m sure — comments on his facebook wall.
You gotta love parents who don’t get it — or act like they don’t get it. That would be us. But we do get it, which is why we’re omnipresent — well, sort of — in his life from a manageable distance of 600 miles or so. Not quite helicoptering, but close. Very, very close. Telescopic helicoptering? I wish.
After getting his driver’s license in the nick of time late last summer and with no practice until returning home this June for a short four weeks, after one reminder session with the MoH, he was on his own, remembering to ask if I had plans to use the car before driving away to meet with friends. Suppressing the urge to sneak out the front door to snap 10 or 20 photos of him driving off the first time by himself, I had a little talk with God about keeping him safe instead. And I’m not one who talks to God, but the stars weren’t out, so I couldn’t see talking to a sunlit sky making sense. I count myself lucky that I didn’t have to deal with the worry of his wanting to drive when he was 16. The three years’ wait time gave me a chance to mature a bit or find out a few screws were loose.
I think what I miss about him the most is the conversation we’d have. A glimpse into what he was interested in (sci fi, video games, modeling…) and what he found funny (LOL cats?) was always an excuse to stop what I was doing to listen, watching his eyes as he talked, the start of a smile thinking about what he was telling me. Nice kid.
It’s a challenge to get much out of him on the phone now, and worried he might feel compelled to talk to “Mom,” I usually make it brief and on the not so fuzzy side of things I warned him I’d remind him of periodically, like, “Are you eating enough, and washing your hair? Taking showers, cleaning your face, putting on your deoderant?” before he cuts me off with an even-toned, “Mom” and patient explanation that he is, in fact, taking care of all of those things. Good answer.
You’re wincing, I’m sure, but someone has to remind him. It might as well be me. Call it a public service.
The MoH and I are fairly jealous that he’s getting this opportunity. That he gets to be in our favorite city every day, and when he leaves his dorm for class, it’s to walk among those who live there, work there, and vacation there. And then there are those who hang around the streets there, too, but that’s part of life, isn’t it? Knowing when to be aware, safe. It feels like we’ve made two steps in one with this experience of sending him out into the world — that he’s getting his education, but he’s getting it in a big city instead of on a traditional college campus.
We’re happy for him.
And proud.
Happy Belated, Doog. We love you.
p.s.
Has your mini-fridge arrived yet?
Each day I promise myself I’ll sit down to write something — something that has nothing to do with food — and each day, I fail. This dooms me to an endless procession of imagined writings that weave in and out of each day, sparked by the smallest things I may not realize have had an impact on me. The words begin, constructing themselves into phrases, sentences, and whole passages that take on a life of their own.
Sometimes, the writing catches my attention, somewhat like a voice finally loud enough to hear in a busy room, its owner choosing an insistent tone, annoyed to catch you not paying attention and absorbed in all sorts of unimportant things.
It’s unfortunate because without the fingers currently pecking away on the screen of this iPad, none of it ever becomes anything. It’s the perfect excuse to be distracted by the sun now just barely showing itself above the wall through the kitchen window. Or a promise made to oneself that the most mundane tasks will be completed each day before anything creative might be done. At least the brilliance of the sunrise allows thought to grow, and an inclination to write to develop.
Of course, it also makes me want to get my camera to snap 10 or 15 shots of the reflection on the counter I did take the time to wipe this morning, as well as consider which setting might best capture the streams of light shooting from the sun. After a few attempts, my curiosity begins to generate questions about how that’s actually done and quiet, thoughtfulness is pushed easily aside for more practical things — like mental list making.
Yes, a pattern is surfacing. If everything goes on in my head, then I don’t actually have to commit to any of it — at least not commit to the particular order it’s in or on any particular day. And why should I? The sheer enormity of my “list” can be either a pleasure, or burden depending on when and how I approach it, so not having to look at it is important.
Here’s a small dose as it comes to mind:
Make fondant to try a new recipe
Decide whether to experiment with a sheet cake which can be cut, or pour the shapes
Call the association to paint fence ?
Call nursery about 10-12 Iceberg Floribundas
Call masonry store about flagstone wall caps ?
Make curtains for the office and install rod
Demo the boy’s bathroom
Finish selecting photos of England for book ?
Replace knobs on old dresser
Reupholster two bedroom chairs
Locate additional handle for back door
Order bedside lamps
Clean closet (again)
Figure out how to put thumbnails in archived posts on blog
Update 365 page
Redo “about” page
Keep reading about custom background CSS and experiment
Exercise & ice knee ?
Go through office boxes
Replace closet doors
Catch up with a year of Daring Baker challenges
Think about getting back in the habit of planning meals by the week (right)
Scan old photos
Send old slides out for scanning/printing
Order blinds for bedroom
Refinish that ugly table
Figure out what to do with that canvas
Process a photo to go in the big black frame
DIY garden lighting and irrigation for back of house
Fireplace mantle for living room
Organize separate libraries in Aperture
Schedule one-on-one project appointments
Plan monthly photo shoots out and about San Diego
Start thinking about New England road trip for next Fall
I could keep going. And going. And going.
I made a list of home improvements to work on as a motivating factor after returning to work for a year, but after staring at the bedraggled salmon-colored sheet it was written on and only crossing one item off in that year’s time, I tossed it, annoyed far more than I’d ever been motivated.
There’s no point in making a list, but I have noticed since I drafted this yesterday morning, I have checked off a few things. On the other hand, I’ve completed far more tasks not on this list in the same time, and have detected others that have grown in the night.
Each morning when I wake long before I’d like to, my list plays. If it doesn’t put me to sleep with its endlessness, then it does eventually encourage me to get up to start my day thinking that because I’ve had some constructive think time, perhaps I can dupe myself into quiet writing time before the sun rises.
I may no longer live my life in the organized, meticulously planned way as I once did, but I will alway have something to be interested in doing.
And routine household chores will never be a deterrent for ignoring what sustains me.
It’s funny that when you’ve waited long for something and it finally arrives, time slows to a crawl. It’s there, right on your doorstep but not quite ready to enter because it’s not quite time. I’m not the only one affected by this because I can hear my son in his room next door not doing much of anything. Yet again, checking the insistent tone in my voice, I’ve had to tell him that he needs to pick up his room. That I do not want to be left after we’ve dropped him off at school to come back home and see what’s left of his teenaged boyness strewn around the floor and on every surface, forcing me to acknowledge for the thousandth time how fast time passes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was suspicious that I had plans for his room in his absence. Plans like, ridding our house of all evidence of his having inhabited the space for nearly a decade and putting up ruffled curtains, or painting it pink.
I’m sitting here instead of forcing things to move along more quickly in the day, but it’s conditioned response. My reasonably gentle prodding requires being within earshot of him to make sure he’s doing what he needs to do to get ready. It takes more time in the long run, but it’s good for me on the patience practicing front, and it’s good for him because let’s face it: he’ll be doing all of it on his own after tomorrow without the up close and personal variety of insistent prodding or reminders. They’ll be relegated to email and Skype instead.
Have you washed your hair? Done your laundry? How are your classes? Is your roommate a nice guy? Are you brushing your teeth, flossing your teeth, staying on top of your organization?
The contents of his day-to-day existence have steadily begun to fill my office — stacks of jeans, shorts, and tee shirts lining up against the bookcases. We stand looking at them as if they were something remarkable.
Me: Are three pair of jeans enough?
Him: I probably need a couple more.
Me: (holding up a dingy yellow tee) This one’s seen better days. If it’s a favorite, leave it here, otherwise, throw it in the discard pile.
Him: What’s wrong with it?
And then another laundry lesson begins about light colors being separated from dark when the weekly wash is completed. He’s been doing his laundry for a couple of years now, but I have to make sure, telling him something he knows already.
Economy sized bottle of detergent. Check. Even larger economy sized toilet paper package. Check. Body wash, shaving cream, toothpaste, dental floss…check. I wandered through the book section at Target last week after sending him off to get his personal supplies, the image a doting mother leading her 18-year-old son around to choose his deodorant not appealing to me even though I know he wouldn’t mind.
The sounds of hustle bustle next door have stopped again and a quick look around me reveals a few more items lying in wait– guitar, art supplies, a few of his favorite books — but I can tell he’s once again parked in front of his computer. The computer that’s staying here. The new laptop arrives today, just in time to be experimented with and the Wacom tablet hooked up to make sure everything works. Are 24 hours really enough for a day like this?
It’s 10am and things are finally going into the soft duffle bag with rollers we purchased a few years ago with this very moment in mind. Thankfully, there’s a second for the bits of this and that he’ll need — things that feel semi-familiar.
Will you have your own desk? Is there a lamp? Are there hangers in the closet? I’ve asked all these questions before and have been patiently told, yes. Yes, they’re all there. But what about something for your desk? Something to keep pencils in, or folders for important papers? He and the MoH were there on a dorm tour recently, so I’ve been assured that everything is just fine. But no mini fridges, no microwaves, and no used furniture is allowed. And definitely no pets, which is sad for Lizzie who clearly loves him more than anyone else here. He’s had to push her aside more than once as he filled the large duffle bag, trying to keep her out of it. For now, she’s content to make a nest on the clothes he’s put aside to wear tomorrow, her paws kneading the worn fleece before settling down to bathe, confirming that he’ll have cat hair on his clothes when he leaves just like any other day.
By this time tomorrow, we will have dropped him off at his dorm and helped him carry everything to his room. If we’re lucky, we’ll get to meet his roommate, but I’ve been told he thinks he can handle making his bed himself. Of course this is something I’ve always known, but he’s yet to make his bed once in his life, so the experience should be interesting. Bear in mind I’ve not made his bed many times, either, but I can think of many things I’d rather do than to make up a bunk bed. I wonder if he’ll have the top bunk or the bottom?
He’s semi-packed now and in the shower. We’re off to get his bi-annual haircut, pick up some new earphones and maybe assemble a junkfood stash for his dorm. It would be perfect to be able to put him in my car so he could take care of these last minute things himself, leaving me to fuss over the details, but after all the hassle of getting his driving permit, lessons, practice, and a last second driver’s test, he doesn’t like driving. Go figure. At least he’ll have some ID, right?
I wonder how he’ll feel about being in a big city away from just about everything he’s always known and depended upon?
Oh, my.
I’ve been awake for hours trying quietly to relax the pace of my heart, breathing slowing, drawing huge breaths in and then letting them go. It works most of the time and I can close my eyes and find a cool spot on my pillow to lull myself back to sleep, but it didn’t work today.
No, today is important. Today is the day that I can, after a bit more than a year, actually see the light at the end of the tunnel, and although I’m not quite there, know it will come. All the students are finished and have gone home, but the finishing touches of yet another school year are left to be completed, so I’ll busy myself with those in much the same way one fits the remnants of a 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzle together, glad to be done with it.
I’ve missed quite a few things in the last year if you consider that the several before it I was able to write down my reactions to events in the world, to note the often quiet passing of time, or not so quiet family milestones. My writing stopped here, and although I tried to jot a few things down on a calendar kept next to my bed, with the exception of a few desperate bursts of anxiety, that stopped as well. I funneled what little energy I had into my food writing, but even that has slowed to a trickle. Not so surprisingly, the 365 project has saved me, allowing me to “say” something — anything — each day since the first of the year with a photograph.
Salvation.
When I scan through the shots in my iPhoto library taken in the past year, much of what I’ve taken has been of food, and if you know me, that isn’t a surprise. What you may not realize is that each of those photographs tells me so much more than what I was learning about a particular recipe I’d tried, or a meal we might have enjoyed. They help me remember where our lives were at a particular moment that no one else would understand when looking at them, like the bagels I made last June when our old doggo Jones could barely move. That was when we took her to the vet for some pain-killers and bought the non-skid treads for the stairs so she could follow me around like she always has. Or the Bittman salads I made through the summer and into the fall thinking, surely I can keep this going and stay healthy, keep my food writing going, and divert my attention from what I was doing all day to something sustaining in the evenings. There was the bakewell tart around the time of my son’s first shave, and the amazing peanut butter banana mallow mars I made about the time we got Lizzie to brighten up our lives, making us laugh when we most needed it.
In a year’s time we’ve had a family wedding, succumbed to a brief, but nasty run in with H1N1, watched another niece enter college, wished my mother and her Romeo bon voyage as they set out to travel around the country, and sadly, mourned the loss of our dear, sweet Jones who passed on to doggy heaven the day after Thanksgiving.
This year has also been my son’s last year of high school, and one marked with the added surprise of his having to ride a bike to and from school each day — a ride that is downhill all the way, and of course uphill all the way back. If you know the hill we live on, then you might understand his feeling of accomplishment the first time he made it all the way to the top without having to get off and push his bike the remainder of the trip. You’ve missed what could have been my raging at the injustice of having that bike stolen the very first day of school, and then my response of simple acceptance and the purchase of yet another bike.
I traveled to participate in my first food conference in San Francisco, we made our annual trek to Las Vegas, and then pathetically, I dragged myself into the holidays and right up to January 1st when I decided to join so many others in taking a photo a day. I can look at each one now and say that pictures do paint a thousand words — words that I’ll most likely never write. My husband has heard them all and it has been far less than easy. Poor man.
Going back to work for a year has added 25 pounds to my already padded body, has challenged me to keep up with any kind of routine diet or exercise, and has caused me to think critically about my health and life in general more differently than I ever have. However, I can be thankful for construction bills now paid off, and tuition for my son’s first year of college. I am happy for new friends and interesting people I’ve met and worked with. But I’m especially grateful for the opportunity to know that when I left my profession the first time, it was the best decision I ever made.
This time, it’s for good, and for all the right reasons.