New Mantra in Town

Peter Walsh, author of It's All Too Much, is an expert on organizing. On getting rid of clutter, ditching unwanted baggage, and simplifying your life. He's also the man who (indirectly) introduced me to my new mantra.

I'm a word person. I read. I write. I have whole files of quotes I just had to save. I love words. So it makes sense that the idea of a mantra would appeal to me. Words you can say to change your mood, make you think of something in a differnt way, to help you make a decision.

There are a lot that I like. Sarah's favorite yoga mantra is "I am." The mantra Denise learned from her pastor and passed on to me is "All will be well. All will be well. All manner of things will be well." The one I adopted from The Secret is "I'm so happy and grateful." Does it even matter what you're grateful for when you feel so much better just by the act of expressing gratitude?

A few weeks ago, Oprah called Peter Walsh in to help a woman who was a hoarder. Her house had been reduced to about 200 square feet of livable space, because the rest was taken up by stuff. Just all sorts of stuff. And in coaching her on how to get out from under that monkey, he told her that she needed to ask herself two questions about each piece of clutter: Does this help me get the life I want? Or does it keep me from having the life I want? Now, I didn't actually watch Oprah, since, well, I have a job. But someone who takes another Weight Watchers class with my leader saw it, and she repeated it to Courtney, who repeated it to my group. And just like that, Peter Walsh (twice removed, three times if you count Oprah) changed my life.

Because doesn't that just simplify every difficult decision you have to make? Don't most things do one or the other? Bring you closer to the life you want or farther away? It's perfect for Weight Watchers. Going to a fancy dinner with my friends, and then having dessert? It might be a lot of calories, but it's worth it. I want to be the girl who can go out, let go of the reigns a little bit, and just enjoy myself. That's totally helping me have the life I want. But the chips and onion dip I have a tendency to buy at the supermarket and then gorge on sitting on my couch, feeling bad about myself the whole time? Not so much. The week I adopted this new mantra, I lost 4 pounds. I love this man. Seriously. I LOVE this man.

I sat with him by chance at a dinner party six months ago, and it's a good thing I didn't know about this whole mantra thing back then. I might have embarrassed myself. It's bad enought that I gave him an honest estimate about how many pairs of shoes I own. He seems to think I don't actually need that many shoes. Silly man. I won't hold it against him, though. Nobody's perfect, right?

The Prettiest Girl in the World

Hanging out with girlfriends recently, the talk turned, as it always does, to body image. I complain about my weight. A friend who weighs 80 pounds less than I do refers to herself as a “fat bastard.” Another friend cringes every time she sees herself in a picture. It’s a rare woman who’s completely happy with how she looks, who looks at herself in a mirror without noticing the faults first.

I remember being at an aerobics class with my sister when I was in junior high and telling her that I would give anything to look like the instructor—thin and conventionally pretty. Michelle reminded me that I was most likely both far smarter and a much better person than her, but at that age none of that mattered. I would have gladly traded in my genius IQ for a size 6 body and a face that wasn’t perfectly round. It’s a damn good thing God doesn’t answer all our adolescent prayers, because you all would be reading someone else’s blog right now, and I’d be admiring myself in a mirror somewhere.

While I’ve long since lost the willingness to give up what I am to look different, I’m not going to lie. I never outgrew the longing to experience, just for a little while, what it’s like to be pretty. To see my looks open doors, to feel what’s it like when you turn heads. Remember the movie The Mirror Has Two Faces with Barbra Streisand? She plays a plain-looking woman whose mother and sister are both gorgeous, while she has to come to terms with never being the pretty one. I saw it in the theater with my niece, who is the pretty one, and I cried for five hours afterward. It hit a little too close to home.

All of this female dissatisfaction is heartbreaking, and it terrifies me for my nieces. All those perfect little girls, with their round cheeks and smooth skin and chubby bellies, are some day going to see themselves with unkind eyes. They’re going to compare themselves with models and actresses and with their friends who are more thin or more pretty or more something, and feel they don’t measure up. They’re going to devalue themselves and demand less than they deserve from others, and it’s easy to meet a woman’s requirements when she sets the bar that low.

And that, my friends, is where we come in. Because can’t we make a difference? If we start now, can’t we teach them what they’re worth? Those little girls are clay, waiting to be molded. So why can’t we mold them not in our own images, but in the images we want them to have? My friend Kerri knows this woman, G. I first met her years ago, and although G was on the heavy side, she seemed to suffer from none of those crippling insecurities the rest of us were writhing under. I asked Kerri about it once, and she explained that it was simple. G’s family, the whole time she was growing up, had reminded her constantly that she was beautiful, she was fabulous, she could do anything she wanted to. And hearing it over and over, she believed it.

What if it’s that simple? I mean sure, it’s not a proven solution, but it could be part of it. Maybe if we’re positive about ourselves instead of talking about our faults, if we focus on what we like about ourselves instead of what we don’t, and if we remind them every chance we get how fabulous they are, we can raise our daughters and nieces to be different than we were. To love themselves, to love their bodies, to not get caught up in those same destructive cycles we did.

As soon as my goddaughter was old enough to listen to me and pay attention to what I was saying, I made up The Ella Song. “There once was a girl named Ella, and she was the prettiest girl in the world. There once was a girl named Ella, and she had the prettiest nose in the world.” One by one I go through her body parts—eyes, ears, mouth, arms, belly, legs, touching each of them, telling her how pretty they are, how pretty she is. I’ll hold her close when I sing to her, and she’ll stare into my eyes the whole time, moving her head back and forth to my singing. Just recently, she started directing me. “You forgot dis one,” she’ll say, and hand me her arm. Or I’ll tell her how pretty her left hand is, and she’ll hand me the right one and say “Dis one too.” Sarah told me after Ella and I are together, she’ll hear her playing, singing the song to herself.

I’m not naïve enough to think a silly made-up song will somehow save her from heartbreak, or keep her from teenage angst. But when’s the last time you saw a girl suffering from too much self-esteem? Yeah, me neither.

Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It

You all know about my quests for the unattainable object. But this one's dangerous. I can't do it on my own. I'm asking for help.

The Burger King kids' meals right now come with the coolest toy ever--teeny little NFL jerseys on suction cups. I hadn't been to Burger King in ages, since it's not exactly compatible with Weight Watchers, but we stopped for lunch on the way to New Hampshire. The kids' meals each came with a teeny jersey, and I was hooked. We got a couple of totally random teams, and one Miami jersey that I personally think should be burned. Ella and Jacques, of course, couldn't care less what colors the jerseys were. They were thrilled. But I found myself thinking "Wouldn't a little Pats jersey look adorable stuck to the back window of my new car? My car's red. It'll even match!" And well, I'm a little obsessed when it comes to things matching. Now I had the idea in my head. And we all know that for Bookgirl, that way lies madness.

So last Tuesday I went to the BK in Rockefeller Center at lunch, and convinced the girl behind the counter to rummage through the box looking for a Pats jersey. They didn't have one. At that point I obviously couldn't leave without ordering something, so I bought my favorite chicken sandwich. How bad can that be, right? 16 points. That's how bad it can be.

Then Saturday I decided to try again at the Burger King in my neighborhood. This time the cashier smirked at me and said "Cheaters" before he looked. Still no jersey. And a cheeseburger and small fries is 13 points, as it turns out.

Now the calories aren't the only reason why this is a bad idea. I've always believed that putting things on your car to make it a target is just stupid, particularly when you park on the street like I do. Every time I see a bumper sticker identifying the driver as gay, I applaud the pride and then wonder, "Aren't you just inviting some drunken asshole to slash your tires on his way home, just because he can?" And given the current situation it's not a great time to be a Pats fan anywhere, but particularly in New York. But that's tomorrow's post.

The point is that I want, no, NEED this jersey. And that's where you come in, my friends. Some of you have kids. Wouldn't your kids really LOVE Burger King for lunch? Or dinner? Or whatever? And wouldn't they love to request the Patriots jersey with their meal, so they can send it to Auntie Bookgirl? Who will, of course, reimburse mommy and daddy for the cost of the meal, shipping, gas to get to BK, whatever. I'm desperate here. My ass is big enough already, and stalking Burger King isn't helping. Besides, they're kids. They're little. They can burn calories faster than I can. Come on. Help a sister out.

Bookgirl vs. the Towel

I know there hasn't been a Weight Watchers update in a while. I haven't been holding out on you, people. There just hasn't been any good news to share. For the past two weeks I've been slowly working off the weight I gained during my "I'm young and single. Who cares about Weight Watchers??" week. But that's all behind me now. As of today I lost back that weight plus an additional pound, so I'm 16.6 down in 12 weeks. I'm not going to win any races at this speed, but it's a marathon not a sprint. Or at least that's what they tell us to make us feel better.

My beloved Weight Watchers leader is out on maternity leave and today was the first meeting with the new one. I've been known to walk out of a meeting and never come back because I didn't like the leader, so I was a bit wary to say the least. A bad Weight Watchers meeting is like having a therapist you don't like. Going is pointless, because you're not going to get any real work done in that room. I like the people in my meeting. I like the day and time. I didn't want to have to find a new one. But it was all good. Phew. She's funny and smart and energetic, and likes to give out little star stickers as much as I like getting them. We're going to get along just fine.

Today's meeting topic was having big dreams, and setting goals. My redheaded friend has been talking about this on her blog, and I've been thinking about it, so this was the perfect topic for me. My goal is simple. To conquer the gym towel.

I hate that freaking towel. It's little. I'm big. Not a great combination. Me and the towel, we're going to have to take it outside one day. All I want is to be able to wrap it all the way around me. Not mostly around me. Not 3/4 of the way around me so I have to pick which bit of me hangs out. All the way around. Those skinny girls at the gym just tie it around their breasts and get ready, all their personal bits covered while they do their hair. I hate those bitches. And no, just taking a bigger towel from home doesn't count. That's cheating.

So it's on. Me and you Towel, we're going to have a showdown. Be prepared. May the best woman/terry cloth rectangle win.

Social Life 1; Weight Watchers 0

For me, the hardest part about Weight Watchers is trying to find a balance between weight loss and maintaining a social life. I’m serious about losing weight, but I’m not willing to give up girls’ nights or part ways with my good friend Margarita.

I feel like I’m usually pretty good at the give and take of it. This week, not so much. I had 2 lunches, a film screening for The Nanny Diaries with the authors (Fabulous. Go see it. Now.), margarita Friday ($3 margaritas, I have no self-control. You do the math.), a girls’ night out for 2 friends’ birthdays, what could technically be called a barbecue but instead devolved into roughly 13 straight hours of drinking beer and eating red meat, and dinner with a friend. And that’s all since Wednesday. Even if you do 2-hour workouts, the gym simply cannot make up for that kind of abuse. I only gained 1.4 pounds, though, so obviously the workouts did some damage control. Thank you, Earl.

As some of you know, Polly-my-best-friend-in-California is fascinated by/obsessed with personality types. The beauty of having a best friend with her personality type is that she's willing to do hours and hours of research on my type to figure me out, and to be the best friend possible. Mostly I smile and nod (I debated putting that part in, but you know me too well to be surprised, Pol), but she found out something fascinating about my type this week. Evidently, mine has the single hardest time with weight loss because we're such social creatures, so we don't want to miss out on anything. We hate feeling like we're missing out on a party or gathering or experience by not joining in whole hog (which for me always ends up meaning 20 points in liquor). Also, the vast majority of people in eating disorder programs are my type. I find this information totally liberating, because it means it's not my fault that this is such a struggle. I'm hard-wired that way. While it doesn't mean I can give up the fight, it does mean I can stop beating myself up over it a little bit. Which just may have been what Polly's been telling me all along about this personality stuff.

Addiction

This topic has come up in conversation twice in the past week, so I figured why not just put my dirty laundry out there for everyone to read? For ten years, from high school until my mid-twenties, I was bulimic. If you knew me during that period and had no clue, you’re in good company. With a few exceptions, no one else did either. I am excellent at maintaining a façade. Or lying, depending on your point of view.

Someone asked me recently how I could do it, how I could bring myself to vomit. But what’s impossible to explain unless you’ve experienced it is that I didn’t force myself to do it. I CRAVED it. A counselor I saw once, when I was sixteen and we still thought it was a passing phase, explained it best: You can’t be upset and throw up at the same time. Your body can’t process both, so it has to shut down the emotions. While the root of my bulimia was in my lack of physical self-confidence, in my dissatisfaction with my body, that soon became such a small part of the picture. It’s been years since I binged with the intention of purging, but I still miss the purging part.

In the same way that someone who hasn’t had a drink in twenty years will always be an alcoholic, I will be bulimic for the rest of my life. A few years ago I got into a fight with one of my friends, which turned into a war. The battle was fought for years, with casualties on both sides. And every time she walked into a party I was at, I went into the bathroom, vomited, and had to go home. Even now, when I get upset, the worst part is not necessarily the upset, it’s the bone-deep knowledge that if I just let myself slip back into my old ways, it would fix it. It might not fix the problem, but it would make me feel better. Immediately. Sometimes I’m not even sure which is the cause of my tears—the initial issue, or the frustration that after all these years and all this work and all that freaking therapy, that this is where my body immediately goes. To an upset stomach and a voice in my ear telling me “Just do it. You’ll feel better.”

Every time I stopped, when I was positive that I had beaten it, for real this time, I would tell a few people. My older sisters. My closest friends. I figured that if they knew, then it couldn’t happen again. Like saying the words somehow made it taboo in a way that my self-loathing didn’t. It didn’t work, of course. Anyone who’s ever battled an addiction knows that fear of exposure and shame aren’t enough to actually stop you. But they watched me, and they called me on it when I started again, and they made sure I couldn’t hide it. I think that’s what kept me from ever seriously hurting myself, or from ending up in the hospital, and why I eventually was able to beat it as much as I have. Those people never let me just sink down into the dark with the bulimia. They made me face it and talk about it, and expose it. And addictions don’t flourish well in the light.

Milestone Monday/Weight Watchers Ain't Easy

It's a real milestone today, kids. Not like last week's fake one. I'm down 2 more pounds this week, for a total of 15.6. I've crossed the 15-pound mark in 8 weeks. My Weight Watchers leader asked me to tell the group how I was doing it. And I'm not going to lie. Weight Watchers is HARD. I know anything worthwhile is supposed to be difficult, but seriously, if someone out there has a weight loss wand they can just wave at me, I'd much rather choose that option.

It's not as hard as it has been in the past, as evidenced by the fact that I'm actually doing it and not just saying I am. I dug out my old Weight Watchers books from the file cabinet this weekend, and I found a bunch of examples where I spent a few months and a couple of hundred dollars to end up weighing more than I started. Nice. If you ever feel like paying someone to help you gain 12 pounds, I'm your girl.

There are all the different pieces that go into it: the working out, the walking, the planning ahead, writing down everything I eat, drinking enough water to save a drought-stricken country, the incessant peeing. But most of all it's the food. The picture here might look to you like what you'd pack to go camping, but no, that's just what I have to bring to get through the day without cheating. I leave my house at 8 am, and often don't get home from the gym until 9:30, and I'm always about a second away from just saying "fuck it" and grabbing a Twix bar from the vending machine. It's like Weight Watchers Survivor. What do I have to pack to get through the day without eating junkfood, turning into a raving bitch, or jumping on the woman eating the candy bar next to me on the subway and screaming, "Mine!!!!" I dedicate one weekend morning to cooking vegetables so I have them for the week, and on Sunday I cooked a spaghetti squash, a cauliflower, a brocolli, a couple pounds of brussel sprouts, and cut up half a watermelon. If you and your entire extended family ever decide to stop by unexpectedly for dinner, we could all eat comfortably.

Right around the time I was starting Weight Watchers, one of our friends had someone call her a fatty to her face. Now she said it like it was a joke, but every woman knows there's no way to spin that. That's just vicious. So of course, having our warped sense of humor, Sarah and I just can't let it go. She made up a weight loss cheer for me: "Go Chrissy, go Chrissy, you're not a fatty." And every Monday when I call her with the week's results, she doesn't even say hello. She sees it's me and answers the phone with, "Who's not a fatty?" Yes, Weight Watchers is hard. But being able to mock it makes the whole process a lot easier.

Earl

This is the part of the blog where Bookgirl makes an irresponsible decision, but you all pretend it’s a good one. Let’s call you what I need you to be: enablers.

My computer at home hasn’t been working lately, so I decided to buy a new one with the money I don’t really have. I thought about what I wanted, I researched laptops, I debated exactly what I needed this computer to do, I questioned whether I could justify the cost of a new one. And then I spent the money (which again, I don’t really have) on a trainer at the gym instead.

This trainer had come up to me once while I was working out and basically said, “You’re doing that all wrong.” But he said it in such a nice way (and with such a pretty accent) that I wasn’t insulted. And then he went around the gym with me showing me exercises that were better for my body. I got lazy and eventually stopped working out, as these things go. But then when I got back into the groove this summer, I saw him there one day. The seed was planted. Should I get him to train me? And then something sealed the deal in a way nothing else could have. I didn’t see him again for months. Let’s face it, ladies. There’s nothing I want more than something I can’t have.

This, I’m sorry to say, is where the stalking set in. I tried showing up at different times to find him. I cornered the girl at the front desk and described him in detail until she finally figured out who I was talking about and could tell me his name. For the sake of the story we’ll call the trainer Earl. Because it sounds cool. Also because it’s his name.

So this week, finally, FINALLY, Earl and I were at the gym at the same time. Our eyes met. I sidled over to him and said, in my sexiest voice, “Hey baby, you looking for a girl?” (Okay, really I said “Can you come over when you have a sec. I want to buy some sessions,” but the first version sounded way better, right?) Now deep down, I know that he can’t possibly live up to the hype. It’s going to be like every time that hot guy I’ve been fantasizing over finally talks to me and I realize he’s dumb as a stump. But right now, I have the best thing of all: hope. I’m quite sure that Earl, I, and my new body will be quite happy together. Let’s hope he doesn’t work me so hard that I have to go all Dixie Chicks on him.

Milestone Muesday

I didn't get to go to Weight Watchers yesterday because I had a funeral. Which is the same reason I haven't been writing. I can't bring myself to write about her, but I can't write about anything else either.

I weighed in this morning on the way to work to cheer myself up, and I lost 2.6 pounds. 13.6 total. No, it's not a milestone, but it's the only positive I have going this morning, so I decided to bend the rules a little.

Introducing Milestone Monday

No real post today, as it's my first day back from vacation and I'm still trying to get back into the habit of coherent thought. But as Monday is my Weight Watchers weigh-in day, I'd like to introduce a new feature -- Milestone Monday! I passed the 10-pound mark today. I'm down 11.4 pounds. Woo hoo!

And this was taken pre-weight loss, but it's a cute picture of me and Sarah from girls' weekend, so I thought I'd share. Call it my before picture. I look huge next to her, but I've accepted it as part and parcel of having a best friend the size of a sixth-grader....

Working the W's

I swore I wasn’t going to blog about Weight Watchers, in case I lose my motivation. Then I’ve put it out there, and everyone knows I’m trying, and I’m still fat.

But as is the case with any major life change, I’m completely obsessed and can’t keep myself from thinking, talking, and now writing about it. Constantly. If you’ve never struggled with your weight and totally don’t get where I’m coming from, please, for the love of God, don’t tell me. I was a chubby kid who grew up into a chubby adolescent, teenager, and adult. Then about five years ago I went through a really unfortunate time emotionally, which coincided exactly with my dad being diagnosed with cancer. It was like a perfect storm of bad. I ate. And ate. And ate. And ate. Until I woke up one morning, 50 pounds heavier, trying to figure out who that girl in the mirror was.

So while I’ve been on and off Weight Watchers since I was 11, this is the time. I think. No, really. This is it. It feels different this time. I’m in that focused zone, the “you’d damn well better believe I’m going to make this work” zone. And it feels great.

Well, mostly it feels great. Not so much when I’m getting up to pee for the THIRTIETH time today, because I’ve now drunk something like 80 ounces of water so far. Or that moment when I suddenly realize my body was not meant to consume half a head of cauliflower, a large salad, 2 cups of cherries, and some broccoli on the same day. That moment, not so great.

On vacation last week, I actually packed healthy snacks to take to the beach. And ate everything, all weekend, out of the same measuring cup, so I could control my portions. (I’ll probably feel less good if I get food poisoning from the measuring cup, but that’s another story. I’m guessing clam chowder and milk aren’t supposed to mix). I’ve been looking up menus online before I go out with my friends to plan out what I’m eating and figure out the points ahead of time, and exercising more than I have for months. (Sorry New York Sports Club, I’m no longer pure profit.) I mean, I’m FOCUSED. And determined to stay that way, which is what I need you guys for. Who wants to be my cheerleader??


p.s. 5 pounds down after 2 weeks. Woo hoo!!
p.p.s. The amount Weight Watchers wants me to lose to get down to their idea of my ideal weight is actually more than Sarah weighs. I suggested that I just dump HER, and then I’d have lost all the weight with a lot less work, but she reminded me that then I’d just be fat AND unhappy. She might have a point…

Girls of Summer

I live for summer. If you read my winter entries, they're whiney, and sad, and lethargic. But as soon as the weather starts getting warm, I come alive. Put me out in the sun and I'm happy as a clam. And even better than summer? Summer weekends. I spent this entire weekend, margarita in hand, either in or next to Sarah’s pool. My favorite quote of the weekend:

Me: Is it noon yet?
Sarah: Somewhere. Go get the blender.

Sarah has six kids (the oldest of whom inherited her perfect comedic timing), and I brought along my godson, so it was a full house. Sarah’s kids seem to think I was put on this earth to do exactly what they want me to do. As my mother put it best, “Yeah, because you’ve given them so much reason to think otherwise…” So basically I am the human jungle gym at their house. At one point I had three of them hanging off me and I said, “Dude… too many kids.” So the littlest boy would grab onto two of the other kids, have all of them hold on to me, and yell, “Too many kids!” I’m thinking of having that stitched onto a pillow for Sarah since it so perfectly encapsulates her life…

Sarah lives in the country, as do two of my sisters, so while I love my nephews dearly, they’re hicks. Dirtbike-riding, John Deere-loving hicks. Sarah’s seven-year-old told me “Mommy won’t go into Wal-Mart (she shares my loathing for their ideology and prefers not to have her hard-earned Benjamins going to the religious right) but Daddy will take me. Maybe I can go without my shirt on. Wouldn’t that be cool?” he he he. Aim high, baby. Aim high.

I swore I wasn’t going to blog about it, but I’m back on Weight Watchers. Again. (I lost 3.2 pounds this week! Woo hoo!) My weekend diet strategy was best summed up as “drink your points.” Something has to go, right? And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be the juice. While a pitcher of margaritas and a salad is no one’s idea of a balanced meal, it got the job done. My mother, however, doesn’t share my theory on such things.

Mom: You know, if you want to bring those little packets of sugar-free lemonade to the party tonight, no one would ever know. It looks just like a cocktail
Me (genuinely confused): Why would I want to do that?
Mom: In case you don’t want to drink
Me: No, I definitely want to drink.

I’m attaching my favorite pictures from the weekend. I only have pictures of three of the kids. Yeah, I know. I suck.