I have a confession to make.
Before going back to WW, it had been two years since I had set foot on a scale. I managed to live for two full years without any knowledge of whether or not I’d gained or lost weight. The thought of that astounds me until I think about why I wouldn’t set foot on that scale. I used to tell myself things like
“I’ll cut back for awhile and then I’ll weigh myself when the number won’t be quite as big.”
“I can still wear this dress, so I could only have gained so much.”
“I’ll see what the damage is when I have time to do something about it.”
I would play the mirror game every day. You know this game whether you think you do or not. You put on some clothes and stare at yourself in the mirror, trying to figure out if it looks looser or tighter. If it’s looser, then you’re on the right track. If it’s tighter, it just came out of the dryer (even if you haven’t done laundry in two weeks). Eventually, you start playing the game with stretchy leggings and a long, loose tunic and telling yourself that it’s not cheating because you can tell how they feel.
But it is cheating. Not having regular checkpoints with yourself does not work.
For me, not weighing regularly is like using a credit card for a month without checking the balance. You spend and spend without any knowledge of what you’ve accumulated until it’s an impossible sum. By the time you realize what you’ve done, it could take months or years to pay it off, plus interest.
That’s where I am right now. I’m in debt to my body. I’ve spent more than I can pay and I owe a lot of interest. But the good news is this:
I can pay down this debt.
Little by little, day by day, I can get myself back to where I need to be. I made my first payment today in the amount of 2.6 pounds and 3 inches.
Next week, I’ll pay it down a little more.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A History of Me: Image Versus Self-Image
It occurred to me the other day that 15 years ago, I was in high school. It’s a profound sort of moment, believe it or not. Half my life ago, I was halfway done with being a teenager. It’s amazing to think how far and long I’ve traveled carrying the 15 year old Stacie inside of my brain, how much that girl has impacted (and impacts still) the woman I have become. That girl causes hiccups in the way I think about myself even today.
As a teenager, I was not an unattractive girl. I blossomed earlier than most of my friends. By high school, I was already to my adult height, amply gifted with those certain endowments of womanhood, and was one of the lucky few in my age range who didn’t experience acne. I was in the top 5% of my class. I had also emerged from my shell to become quite the performer in drama and show choir. I was a leader for our mock trial team, winning state recognition as best witness and attorney in 2005 and 2006, respectively. I was the very definition of an over achiever. To look at my high school yearbook, you would think that I was the happiest, most popular kid outside of fiction.
I was also a solid size 12.
Yeah, now I know that size 12 is not a bad thing. Heck, I don’t think it should have mattered to me then. To look at a picture of me with my friends, you’d never know that I thought I was “the fat one” because I didn’t actually look larger than any of them. It was sort of the difference between looking at a photo of Cameron Diaz versus Catherine Zeta Jones: not thin versus fat, but slight versus curvy. I couldn’t make that reconciliation at 15. I could only see that my friends were size 6-8 and I was a size 12. I could only see that most of my girlfriends couldn’t stay single and that I was perpetually so. In my mind, all of that could have been fixed with the loss of 10-30 pounds.
Not Pictured Here: The Fat One
Sure, it didn’t help that most of the girls would complain about their own insecurities on a regular basis. A friend saying “Omigah, I’m so fat” would immediately get transformed in my mind to add “and Stacie’s even bigger than me.”
Of course, they weren’t thinking that or saying it to break my spirit. They, too, were 15 and burdened with the self-image that comes with being a teenager. Heck, some of them were probably battling their own eating disorders. That didn’t matter to 15 year old Stacie. She couldn’t hear that.
Old people from my church were a problem for my self-image, too. I want to go on record as to say that not all old people are evil. In fact, many use their powers for good. However, some old people, the Dark Ancients, I like to call them, were either too senile to understand that they were scarring me for life or, being near death, needed to try to suck the life out of something with some years left. Those Dark Ancients had no problem sharing their feelings about my size 12.
“Once you lose that baby fat, the boys’ll be beating down the doors.”
Old people from my church were a problem for my self-image, too. I want to go on record as to say that not all old people are evil. In fact, many use their powers for good. However, some old people, the Dark Ancients, I like to call them, were either too senile to understand that they were scarring me for life or, being near death, needed to try to suck the life out of something with some years left. Those Dark Ancients had no problem sharing their feelings about my size 12.
“Once you lose that baby fat, the boys’ll be beating down the doors.”
“Are you sure you want to eat dessert, honey? A moment on the lips, you know…”
But my “favorite” experience with an old person being too open about my weight was when I took the time to visit one of my Nana’s friends in the hospital. I was about a month into a diet. Said diet was going well and it showed. I had lost five pounds and was particularly proud of myself.
Pride goeth before a fall.
As I walked into the room with my mom, the woman immediately exclaimed,
But my “favorite” experience with an old person being too open about my weight was when I took the time to visit one of my Nana’s friends in the hospital. I was about a month into a diet. Said diet was going well and it showed. I had lost five pounds and was particularly proud of myself.
Pride goeth before a fall.
As I walked into the room with my mom, the woman immediately exclaimed,
“Oh, gooooood. You’re losing weight. I was worried you were going to let yourself get fat again.”
Right now is probably a good time to share that this woman was not in the hospital for anything that causes dementia or other ailments of the brain. She just felt it was alright to say that thought aloud. It was perfectly acceptable in her mind to tell an impressionable teenager that not only had she been fat, but fat enough to warrant it being on her thoughts.
Seriously, though, I cannot stress enough that this was the girl whose fatness made its way into her thoughts on a regular basis
I stayed polite as did my mother, which is something that I’m not sure I’d have had in me to do today. We finished the visit on a friendly note, leaving a beautiful bouquet of flowers in our wake. As we got into the car, Mom told me not to worry about it, that she was old and that old people said things like that sometimes. I gave Mom a big grin and told her that the fact that she said anything at all just meant that the diet was working and that it showed and that I wasn’t going to let it get to me.
Sometimes, I’m a very good actress.
When we got home, I trotted upstairs to my room, turned on my music, and sobbed into my pillow until I couldn’t breathe. I quit the diet shortly thereafter.
The yo-yo effect continued through college until my senior year when, at a hearty 210 pounds, I said “Enough”. I spent seven months getting down from a size 14 to a size 10. Then I moved 500 miles away from home to the lovely city of Richmond, VA and maintained that size for two years.
Now, if ever you want a fresh view on your body image, I highly recommend moving 500 miles away from your home town. From the moment I set foot in Richmond, I was no longer the fat girl. Every person I met was seeing me for the first time, not as the girl who
yo-yoed weight like a Cirque de Soliel act, but as an attractive, funny woman who was full of confidence.
I dated. For the first time in my life, I went out on dates with eligible men and decided whether or not I wanted to see them again. Okay, I only dated about four different guys before I met my husband, but that’s beside the point.
For the first time ever, I felt like I was liked for something other than my personality. I know that sounds like a crappy thing to feel good about, but I did. I wasn’t just the funny girl, the nice girl, the witty girl, but I was also the pretty girl. It was superficial. It was one of the seven deadlies. It was absolutely marvelous.
And then there came Lucas…
About six months into Lucas and my relationship, I was at 170 pounds and wearing size 8-10. I figured I could do better and began working out at Curves and doing Weight Watchers. Before long, I was working at Curves in between touring shows and got down to an eventual 145, the smallest I had been since 5th Grade. I wore a size 4-6 loosely and was ready to declare myself at goal. It was, as I recall, the most confident I’ve ever felt about myself.
When we got home, I trotted upstairs to my room, turned on my music, and sobbed into my pillow until I couldn’t breathe. I quit the diet shortly thereafter.
The yo-yo effect continued through college until my senior year when, at a hearty 210 pounds, I said “Enough”. I spent seven months getting down from a size 14 to a size 10. Then I moved 500 miles away from home to the lovely city of Richmond, VA and maintained that size for two years.
Now, if ever you want a fresh view on your body image, I highly recommend moving 500 miles away from your home town. From the moment I set foot in Richmond, I was no longer the fat girl. Every person I met was seeing me for the first time, not as the girl who
yo-yoed weight like a Cirque de Soliel act, but as an attractive, funny woman who was full of confidence.
I dated. For the first time in my life, I went out on dates with eligible men and decided whether or not I wanted to see them again. Okay, I only dated about four different guys before I met my husband, but that’s beside the point.
For the first time ever, I felt like I was liked for something other than my personality. I know that sounds like a crappy thing to feel good about, but I did. I wasn’t just the funny girl, the nice girl, the witty girl, but I was also the pretty girl. It was superficial. It was one of the seven deadlies. It was absolutely marvelous.
And then there came Lucas…
About six months into Lucas and my relationship, I was at 170 pounds and wearing size 8-10. I figured I could do better and began working out at Curves and doing Weight Watchers. Before long, I was working at Curves in between touring shows and got down to an eventual 145, the smallest I had been since 5th Grade. I wore a size 4-6 loosely and was ready to declare myself at goal. It was, as I recall, the most confident I’ve ever felt about myself.
Me at age 24
Foiled again.
Well, I never got down to 140. Quite frankly, I don’t think my body is supposed to be that small. Shortly thereafter, I had two years of illness and began the climb back up the scale. I lost a few pounds for my wedding and had been maintaining when, last week, I had my second “enough” moment.
No more maintaining.
No more status quo.
It’s time to try for real again.
I don’t expect it to be easy. Though I hide it fairly well, 15 year old Stacie still creeps into the back of my mind, touting failure. She still reminds me of how unfair it is that some people have it easy when it comes to body weight. She tells me that this time will be the same as all the other times and that I don’t have it in me to make this work. She’s loud. She’s obnoxious.
But, ultimately, she’s 15…
And she’s living in my house…
I think it’s about time to send that brat to her room.
So, here goes...
Last week, I rejoined Weight Watchers. I woke up, put on my favorite pair of lightweight leggings and a cute top, made my way to the WW facility a few miles from my house, and let a complete stranger in on information that not even my husband knows. Well, I guess not a complete stranger; “Evelyn” was printed pretty clearly on her tag and she gave me that “I have a son your age” grin. Anyhoo, yesterday was “make a change day” and I’m sharing that experience with you.
But first, let’s get something straight: I don’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions. I just don’t. There’s only one person I know personally who has ever kept a New Year’s Resolution and she’s OCD about finishing things, so it doesn’t count.
For the most part, NYR’s make it easier to fail because there’s some sort of false magic around that day.
“It’s a New Year, a fresh start.”
No, it isn’t. January 1 is no different than any other day, but somehow, we suspend our disbelief; and that sea of non-biodegradable Mylar confetti becomes some sort of resolution baptismal where we think change can wash over us, purging us from whatever vice is most inconvenient to how we’re perceived by others.
But it doesn’t last. A day, a week, a month later, you find yourself grabbing
“just that one” cigarette/soda/hookerwhomightbeaman and suddenly the spell is broken. You begin thinking that it wasn’t “your destiny” this year and that maybe next New Year, cross your fingers, High Aldwin will come and choose you.
But first, let’s get something straight: I don’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions. I just don’t. There’s only one person I know personally who has ever kept a New Year’s Resolution and she’s OCD about finishing things, so it doesn’t count.
For the most part, NYR’s make it easier to fail because there’s some sort of false magic around that day.
“It’s a New Year, a fresh start.”
No, it isn’t. January 1 is no different than any other day, but somehow, we suspend our disbelief; and that sea of non-biodegradable Mylar confetti becomes some sort of resolution baptismal where we think change can wash over us, purging us from whatever vice is most inconvenient to how we’re perceived by others.
But it doesn’t last. A day, a week, a month later, you find yourself grabbing
“just that one” cigarette/soda/hookerwhomightbeaman and suddenly the spell is broken. You begin thinking that it wasn’t “your destiny” this year and that maybe next New Year, cross your fingers, High Aldwin will come and choose you.
Yeah, I made a Willow reference. Deal with it.
Well, that’s utter crap.
The truth is that one can only resolve to make important change when one is ready for said change because the impetus for change doesn’t follow a schedule.
Duh.
I find it important to share that information because I want to make it perfectly clear that my choice to get healthy is in no way a New Year sort of thing. This is also neither a jump onto some conformist bandwagon to be skinny because I read about it in a magazine nor is it a way to make me feel pretty. Though I sometimes struggle with self-esteem issues (who the heck doesn’t), I generally feel like an attractive woman.
No, I find that change for me either comes from hitting rock bottom or from extreme highs. This change is the latter. This change is about having an experience that had me feeling extra good about me and deciding to use that high to jumpstart. I know some of you are thinking “well, isn’t that what New Year’s rezzes are all about? A jumpstart?” My simple answer is this: the New Year is a jumpstart…for some people. For most, however, it’s a half-baked rite of yearly passage for people barely paying lip service to end their vices before they creep in again. For me, the onset of another year is not a jumpstart. This, however, is…
A few nights ago, I was having a post-rehearsal dinner with some friends at a local pub. We stayed late enough to close the place down (don’t worry, I tipped 30%). I was the last of our crew to walk to my car when one of the waiters pulled up beside me in his car. I recognized him from the bar instantly. He was tall, mid-twentish, with a Nordic sort of look about him, a traditionally good looking guy. I thought he was going to see if I was okay to drive or make sure I got to my car safely. Before I could say “Thanks, but I didn’t have anything to drink”, Thor’s little brother was nervously telling me that I was “totally cute” and asking if I was single and if I was interested in a date-like scenario.
To put things in perspective, I was not at my best that night. I was in a pair of jeans and sneakers with my very best Avengers Tee to top it all off. My hair was tangled with the remnants of rehearsal sweat and the fact that I’d forgotten my brush. I did not feel “totally cute”. I felt like a tired thirty-year-old who ate too much French dip and steak fries. I certainly didn’t feel like someone who gets asked out on the way to her car. I wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. I wasn’t doing anything particularly groovy. And, yet, this attractive guy was pleased enough with my looks to track me down and let me know. That’s a booster for anyone. It boosted me enough to immediately go home and price the new Weight Watchers. It boosted me enough to go to the meeting. It boosted me enough to look at the scale for the first time since my wedding because, gosh darn it, if some handsome twenty-something thinks I am cute, then that number is just a number, a number I needn’t be scared of even if it’s something that I want to change.
So here I am, making a decision for me. Let’s see how it goes…
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