life according to me
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.”
Day 3 of NaNoWriMo is waning but my energy to keep writing hasn’t and that feeling has been present each day so far — sort of. And I’m ahead of myself, so allow me an explanation: I think this will be an important place to think about what I’m learning about myself and writing throughout this process and not so much a place to catch anyone up on exactly what I’m writing.
…until NaNoWriMo begins and although I feel my planning is not only coming along nicely, it’s fun. That’s always a good sign, isn’t it?
I have a loose schedule figured out for myself:
Rise early (okay, so earlier than waiting until the MoH backs out of the driveway) at 7:00
Coffee and yogurt while rereading previous day’s work.
In the last few days that I’ve been adjusting to participating in NaNoWriMo, I’ve been planning. Thinking and planning. Thinking, and reading, listening, remembering, and planning. What I’ve not been doing is planning a plot for my novel. Wait.
My. Novel.
The commuter traffic outside my office window has slowed somewhat, but it’s Friday, so the expected busy, busy of anyone riding the weekend’s momentum has made for a much more noisy morning than I like. Gardeners have started their mowers, weed whackers, blowers. I can hear garbage trucks in the distance.
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.
It’s about that time. The heat of August has come like it always does and with it damp mornings that will always remind me of getting ready for a new school year to begin. As soon as the MoH is off to work, I putz around the pots and planters on my patio, snipping away the spent blossoms and sweeping the leaves that have dropped over the past day. The orb weavers have been out for a week now and trying to jockey for best web position for the season, their little orange bodies not quite adjusted to those of us who forget it’s their time in the garden now, and we crash into their hard work a couple of times before they teach us to remember, and look.
The solstice is still two days away, yet it seems summer has been in full swing for weeks in spite of skies so thick with the seasonal grey we’re accustomed to it’s been misty from time to time. We began celebrating college graduations and finished doctoral work mid-May, then educator friends’ wistful counting of days remaining until the school year ends mingled with cheers for three of our nieces and nephews recently graduated from high school.
//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js
Somewhere in the shuffle of events, the MoH and I made a quick road trip to San Francisco to collect the RT and his meager belongings. His second semester in college was under his belt and planning for how we’d manage transporting the three of us and his stuff back home became a sort of puzzle considering we no longer had the space my old Acura afforded us. Instead, a MINI would have to get the job done. I thought about it long enough and decided it was possible as long as I could put the MoH and RT on a flight home and I could drive the belongings back to San Diego by myself.
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.
At some point during my second grade year, my stepfather, a sonar technician in the Navy, received orders that he’d been transferred to the USS Holland, a new submarine tender headed for Rota, Spain. We were living in Charleston, SC at the time and although my memory is a bit fuzzy, it stands out as the first place I was able to complete an entire school year in one school. The years before had been full of moves from one city to another or one home to another in and around San Diego, then Key West, FL, so that meant school changes were necessary once I’d actually begun attending. A kindergarten or two, perhaps two different schools for first grade — it sounds like a lot for a child to deal with, but I remember being happy, often finding time to wander around whatever neighborhood we lived in to explore vacant lots or think about how I might climb the old pepper trees near one apartment house we lived in.
I don’t remember how my mother explained we’d move to a country somewhere across the Atlantic, but I’m sure she did and in much the same way I adjusted to the other moves we made over the years, I must have thought it was just another adventure. It helped to know our neighbors were being transferred to the same base and that we’d have one familiar contact there. With my stepfather gone well before us, my mother, brother, sister, and I flew first to an airbase in New Jersey, staying for a night — maybe two — then flew to NYC where we caught a TWA red eye to Spain.