A Weight-Loss State of Mind

I recently lost 50 pounds in five months.  To achieve optimal health, I need to do it again immediately.  So, this is an interim report in the form of a blog post, focusing on Lessons Learned.  Item #2 includes two rules, and the rest of the items are guidelines, or musings, or hypoglycemic blather.

1. Eating less than you want to in an attempt to lose weight can really mess with your head.

The instant I form the thought, "Starting immediately, I'm going to eat less than I want to in an attempt to lose weight," a less-reasonable part of me responds, "No!  Please...no!  We'll starve!  And if we manage not to starve, we'll always be hungry!  We'll never be full!  We can't possibly be that attentive, day in and day out!  If we're not allowed to spontaneously and un-self-consciously eat French fries from a loved one's plate, there's no reason to live!"

Occasionally--infrequently--I recognize this less-reasonable part of me as wrong.  I created her, of course, and I did so by depriving myself of food in my late teens and twenties, by telling myself that half of a small baked potato sans toppings constitutes a meal.  The more-reasonable part of me can quiet her (gently, affectionately) by pointing out that my plan is to eat slightly less, but still plenty, and all the good things.

It's easy, though (if one has known only over-eating and under-eating) to suffer Leonard Cohen's "panic of loss" when faced with an alien and perhaps-tedious middle ground, and to anticipate facing it forever.  Equanimity, patience, and assertiveness are key, as are self-awareness, self-care, and expectation management.  And it's a good idea to limit blaming, complaining, and excuse-making (especially if you spend any time at all hanging out with me).

2. A plan-of-eating needs to be less like a balance beam and more like an airport runway.

In the beginning, eating less than I want to can be difficult, and after a month or two I begin to look for a way out.  The easiest way out is to fall off the wagon, eat everything in sight, and then climb back on the wagon a year (or five) later.  Desiring a long-term solution to my recurring obesity, I designed a plan-of-eating with only two rules:

Daily, count the calories of everything I eat, and log that number.

Weekly, log my weight.

The first rule prevents mindless eating.  At restaurants, I make one careful estimation of the caloric content of a meal, and then I stop thinking about it.  At home, I'm more careful; I weigh and measure the ingredients of most meals.  During the last five months, I've eaten as few as 950 calories and as many as 3600 calories (my average is about 1650, and I always round to the nearest 50 calories).  Physical, emotional, and social states affect my eating choices, and I'm comfortable with that.  Sustainability is everything.

The second rule ensures that I'm actually on a weight-loss path.  After the first two weeks, I've averaged a 2-pound loss a week, losing a minimum of 0.6 pounds and a maximum of 3.8 pounds.  This rule dictates that I must hop on the scale at least once a week, but I can do it more frequently if I like.

I cut myself a little slack with this rule, allowing myself to record any weekly weight as my official weekly weight.  My weight-logging day is Monday, but, if my lowest weight happens to be on another day, I  can log that weight.  I find that this results in fewer bleak Sundays (Sundays are bleak enough without limiting dinner to a bowl of watermelon, 'cause it's a diuretic).

3. A plan-of-eating needs to include plenty of protein, fat, and fiber.

There was a time when about 90 percent of my calories came from carbohydrates, and I was willing to feel ravenous day after day because I knew the feeling would culminate in skinniness.  No more.  For the last five months, I've been aiming for 20 to 30 percent of calories from fat, with the rest of the calories evenly divided between protein and carbohydrates (with lots of fiber and very little sugar).  I'm no longer ravenous.

4. A plan-of-eating needs to include all the foods you enjoy.  In fact, those are the only foods that a plan-of-eating should include.

I know this is obnoxiously first-world, but if your meal is disappointing, stop eating as quickly as possible.  Put your fork down, take a deep breath, and imagine what you want to be eating.  Then, if possible, eat that.  It's a mistake to gaze at a menu, or gaze into a pantry or refrigerator, and ask, "What choice will make me thin?"  Keeping in mind that sustainability is everything, a better question is, "What's yummy?"  Or, "What would I choose if this were my last meal?"  Or, "What would I choose for someone else, perhaps someone I was attracted to sexually?" 

5. A temptation-free environment is a fantasy.

I know it's widely recommended that we purge our environments of foods on which we might binge.  And it's true that I don't want to see a 2-pound box of See's chocolates or a family-size bag of BBQ chips every time I open the pantry.  But if one is adequately motivated to overeat, one will, whatever the environment.  I once made a decent batch of bar cookies using nothing but oatmeal, peanut butter, and concentrated apple juice.  And if you melt enough part-skim mozzarella over any whole grain, and add a few drops of Sriracha, you've got a tasty snack.  Additionally, there are five fast-food restaurants within a half-mile of my house, and they all take credit cards.  Or, if I'm already in PJs, I can have pizza and/or Chinese food delivered to the front door, and--because of efficiency and proximity--the orange chicken and crab rangoon will arrive within five minutes.

It's a friendly neighborhood, so just as I purge my home of temptation, a neighbor might drop by with fudge, a Girl Scout might drop by with cookies, or my sister might drop by with lasagna.  All are welcome.  Because temptation is everywhere, it's much more realistic to learn to resist temptation (or to succumb to a degree with which you can live) than it is to cocoon yourself in a temptation-free zone.  Who wants to live there?  When my nephew suggests a late-night trip to the Chevron ExtraMart for snacks, I don't want to respond with, "But sweetheart...you know Aunt Polly's on a diet!"

6. Exercise is a great idea, and I admire anyone who occasionally gets off his or her ass.

For the last five months, I burned calories by running errands, by traipsing around a split-level home, by standing up while waiting for a booth at my favorite Mexican restaurant.  I did a modicum of housework, a soupçon of yard work.  At least fortnightly, I took the dog for a 20-minute walk.  Now that I'm in Phase II (the next fifty pounds), I take the dog for a 30-minute walk every morning.  Eventually, I'll do a bicep curl with a soup can, or attempt a half-dozen jumping jacks, or power-walk a 5K.  Just not yet.

7. Weight loss doesn't need to be physically painful if you're making the right choices, but be prepared for emotional pain.

I numb myself to painful emotions by eating and--especially--by bingeing.  Grief, guilt, fear, anger, envy, and uncertainty all melt away during the process of becoming painfully overfull.  While adhering to a plan-of-eating that results in weight loss, I'm frequently visited by these unwelcome feelings, and I have no tools, no strategies, no defense mechanisms to make them go away.  I am bereft.  These feelings wash over me like ocean waves, and I let them.  I sit quietly, and I let them.

That said, there's no harm in trying to maintain a serene (if not cheerful) mood.  When crap happens, I pause and ask myself, "Is this important crap?"  It usually is not, and, while I don't banish the feelings of agitation or upset, I do nothing to encourage the feelings to linger.  

There's also no harm in trying to have a good time.  Right now, I'm working on a list of Activities That I Always (or Almost Always) Anticipate With Pleasure.  I'm up to seven.  And I try to schedule one for today, one for this week, one for this month, and one for the next six months.

8. Beware the crutch, especially if you don't have absolute control of the crutch.

A crutch is a useful--and temporary--tool for navigating a difficult situation.  Maybe, when I'm eating less than I want to eat, I shop a bit more, or nap a bit more, or watch "Ally McBeal" on Netflix a bit more.  I pay close attention to what affects my mood, and I protect my mood, as much as possible.  If that borders on narcissism (or laziness) (or both), so be it.

But it's essential to avoid crutches that can be unceremoniously kicked out from under you.  Years ago, I relied on a malfunctioning gallbladder to keep me from overeating.  As a crutch, it worked well for months, but eventually I had surgery, and two days later I was making up for lost time at an all-you-can-eat buffet.  I've also used the attention of men (in person and in cyberspace) to distract me from eating.  That particular strategy makes relying on a diseased body part seem like a brilliant idea.

9. Don't be influenced by the weight-loss efforts of those around you.

A weight-loss buddy, or even a group effort, can be--but probably isn't--helpful.  Perhaps you've been inspired by others, so smile gamely when someone is inspired by you, and wants to hop on the weight-loss bandwagon.  Keep in mind, though, that it's not really one big bandwagon, but many individual bandwagons.

As stated earlier, the best weight-loss state of mind is one of equanimity and patience.  Competitive feelings of envy and/or superiority are not useful in this endeavor.  I sincerely wish everyone the best, because if people are successful in achieving and maintaining healthy weights, it's good for the individuals, the nation, and the species.  However, my path is the only path that I can see clearly, and it behooves me to train my focus there.

10. If you feel pressure from anyone to eat more or to eat less, ignore it.

I once said to a friend, "Don't you hate it when people exert subtle--or not so subtle--pressure on you to eat more or to eat less than you want to eat?"

"No," he said.  "I ignore it."

Freak show.  Could that possibly work?  Could I change my responses to people, rather than trying to change...people?  When my stepmother jokes that my helping of veggie fajitas could feed a small village...when my sad friend suggests that the only way out of her bad mood is to share a family-sized sundae...could I remain unaffected by the comment, and eat exactly what I want to eat?  Of course I can!  I am always in charge of what I eat.

11. The rules and guidelines don't change simply because there's a well-loved child in the room.

Eating with children has always been a challenge for me.  I'm already feeling a little stress (because I'm temporarily responsible for another human life), and suddenly we're at Wendy's, and someone wants nuggets, fries, and a Frosty.  Or at least a couple of nibbles of nuggets, fries, and a Frosty.  I don't want to throw the leftovers away, and I don't want to take them home, and all that grease and salt and sugar is calling my name, and I cave.  Later, there are additional snacks during a movie or a tea party, and I find myself eating gumdrops and animal crackers, and sipping some turquoise version of juice.

Recently, I quit that behavior cold turkey.  I was actually beginning to resent the children, which was ridiculous.  Now I ask myself, "Would I eat this if I weren't with this child?" and I only proceed if the answer is yes.

12. As much as possible, detach from outcomes.

Granted, it's almost impossible to do.  When you weigh yourself, you're going to care about the number.  I like to imagine measuring other things: chopped walnuts for cookies, fabric for a skirt, a room for new carpet.  I can do those things without an emotional investment.  Weight-taking is merely an element of charting; it's not an indictment of my body or my character.  It's useful information, and that's all.

I follow my two rules, and I manage expectations.  Sometimes, after a couple of days of Big Macs and TV, I lose 3 pounds.  Sometimes, after a couple of days of veggie chili over brown rice, with dog walks at both sunrise and sunset, I gain 3 pounds.  I don't know why.  And it's not in my best interest to get all spun up about it.

In all of my endeavors, it doesn't make sense for my mood to be dependent on something I cannot control.  I can control how well I stick to my rules and guidelines, and it makes sense for my mood to be somewhat dependent on that.  I'm a firm believer in the science of weight loss (and I roll my eyes at the suggestion that losing weight after menopause is tantamount to raising quadruplets or winning an Oscar), but there will be fluctuations in weight that I am unable to predict or control.  The only option is to detach.  Obsession and extreme behaviors will lead to agitation, when what you need is serenity.

13. The bad news: Weight loss doesn't make everything okay.

It will almost certainly improve your health, but--even as you wiggle into those size-eight jeans--loved ones are still dead, dreams are still dashed, cruelty and tragedy and inequity and despair still reign.  You're only thin.  That's all.  Don't expect more.

14. The good news: Jettisoning the impediment of obesity is worth the angst, and worth any sacrifice of food or drink.

Obesity is unhealthy, uncomfortable, embarrassing, and expensive.  It's limiting.  It can make bold people shy, and active people sedentary.  It can create people who are experts at avoidance, rationalization, and deception.  But once you figure out a way to walk away from it, it quickly loses its grip, and the freedom is exquisite.

Go List Yourself

This afternoon, my older sister and I were sorting through a stack of books that belonged to our dad, who passed away two weeks ago. We stumbled upon a book called "List Your Self: Listmaking as the Way to Self-Discovery." It'd be great if I could lovingly share the contents of the book with you—his memories, his fears, his favorite things—but the book is as bare as it was the day my sister or I sent it to him in 1997. Don't fret, though: That same year, I bought a copy for myself, and I have a record of life as I knew it in the late nineties.

Chapter 1: Yourself

Under "List the activities you'd do if you weren't so afraid," I unwisely include "pick up a hitchhiker" and "be a hitchhiker." I didn't do those things, but I did "learn to swim," and I occasionally "say what I'm feeling."

Under "List the compliments you receive on a regular basis," I enthusiastically fill the page, including "you don't act married."

Under "List what consistently worries you each day," I fill the page once again, including "that I have (or will soon have) cancer, Alzheimer's, or an STD."

Under "List the animals that really scare you," I include worms and bears.

Under "List all the qualities in yourself you like the least," I include but 2: "my tendency toward procrastination" and "my pesky shyness."

Under "List all the things you'd like to say to your mother," I include 13 items ranging from "I miss you" and "thanks for staying up late sewing for me" to "I'm sorry I was occasionally disdainful" and "let's go shopping for slutty clothes."

Under "List all the people who love you for who you really are," I limit it to 6 people: husband, son, an ex-coworker, two neighbor children in Dallas, and cousin Suzy.

Chapter 2: Daily Life

Under "List the things you do between turning off the alarm and walking out your front door," I include "weigh myself," "check email," and "open the blinds and verify there isn't a drowned child in the pool."

Under "List all the things you've lent that have come back broken," I write "Nothing, that I recall."

Chapter 3: Business

Under "List what you'd like to shout out loud to your boss or coworkers," I write 1 thing: "Shut the fuck up!"

Under "List the names of all your past bosses," I list 14, including "Dad" and "some guy at Camp Williams."

Chapter 4: Change

Under "List all those events you went into with doubt that turned out surprisingly well," there's a blank page.

Under "List the attitudes and habits you've had to give up to get through life," I include "being nice is all-important," "men are trustworthy," and "people want to see other people happy and successful."

Under "List the ways you sabotage yourself from getting what you want," I include "I'm unwilling to compete, confront, work hard, or be inconvenienced."

Under "List the menu for your Last Supper," I include 5 items: fresh-squeezed OJ, warm cashews, corn-on-the-cob, a thick slice of white bread with Sally's strawberry jam, and a mint truffle.

Under "List the major changes you feel you need to make in your life right now," I include "stop backing away socially," "stay the budgetary course," and "stop eating meat."

Under "List the rivers you've crossed," I include "I stopped fearing dogs" and "I stopped chatting online."

Under "List all the elements of a perfect vacation," I start with the most important: "low expectations."

Chapter 5: Culture

Under "List the contests and awards you've won," I include 6 items, the most memorable being "an apple-bobbing contest at 6th-grade sleep-away camp."

Under "List all the things that could happen to you when you park in an underground structure," I include 4: I could wind up murdered, trapped in a collapse, lost, or "seduced."

Chapter 6: Men and Women

Under "List all the typical reasons you end a relationship," I write 1 thing: boredom.

Under "List what's wrong with women," I include "they're unreasonable," "they're too attached to possessions," and "they use words like boobs." Under "List what's wrong with men," I include half-again as many items, including "they leave," "they don't say good-bye," "they're awful in groups," "they believe in UFOs," and "they wear hats too often." I have no idea to which UFO-believing, hat-wearing man I'm referring.

Under "List the reasons for getting married," I include "being pregnant," "wanting to be a stay-at-home mom," and "needing health benefits."

Under "List the reasons you haven't met the man or woman of your dreams," I write "I have."

Chapter 7: Greater Truths

Under "List all the things you don't want to think about," I include "getting old: being weird, sexless, demanding, pathetic" and "watching Dad get old."

Under "List what heals your aching heart," I include 4 items: a diet Dr. Pepper on ice, talking with my husband, a long drive, and a long walk. In fact, on the last page of the book, I jot down a Kierkegaard quote: Solvitur ambulando. "It is solved by walking."

Chapter 8: Health

Under "List all the self-improvement techniques you've experimented with," I include 3 items: "Mormonism," "that book on est," and "that Franklin Quest class on time management."

Chapter 9: Growing Up

Under "List the foods, candy, and other treats that you loved to snack on," I include goober peas, Big Hunks, tacos, and coconut-rolled-oats cookies.

Under "List the warnings and old wives' tales you were taught," I include "men are more interesting than women," "all women are potential threats," "sexiness is good," "perfume is essential," and "don't wear ankle straps (always unflattering)." Gee, I wonder who was advising me.

Under "List all the details you can remember about your childhood bedroom," I include many, but my favorite is "my neatness, and Sally's lack of neatness."

Under "List who you wanted to be like when you grew up," I include my mom and Norma.

Under "List the experiences you had as a child that you knew were truly significant," I include (among others) "epiphanies related to Don Black" and "ditto Marvin Payne."

Chapter 10: Suddenly...

Under "Suddenly your house is on fire. List the stuff you'd grab to save," I fill the page. I start—of course—with son, husband, and animals. I add photos, favorite furniture, and layabouts. By the halfway point, I include mini-skirts, "vests and nighties," field jacket, Franny and Zooey, award-winning pinewood-derby car, and teeth-bleaching trays.

Under "Suddenly you are as thin as you want. List what would happen now." Again, the page is crowded with my small, neat printing. Very few items have to do with health or happiness (or sanity or humility or devotion or adventure). I'd probably still want to "swim laps," but that's about it.

Girls' Guide to Being Jack Bauer

Recently, I started carrying a 4-gig USB drive in my purse. For what reason, I know not. It isn’t for work or school, but perhaps for something larger. Perhaps it will come in handy should I be called upon to save the world.

But other than my ability to quickly download data from a terrorist’s hard drive, I’m woefully unprepared. And if my experience organizing potlucks and bake sales and office Christmas parties is any indication, saving the world will best be accomplished as a team. So, my fellow women (or at least the half dozen who choose to skim this blog entry): Let’s acknowledge that it was fun shopping for shoes we didn’t need, it was fun spending Christmas Day in our PJs watching Keira Knightley movies, and it was fun amassing throw pillows in shades of avocado and dark avocado. But it’s time now to leave all that behind, and embrace the Jack Bauer in each of us. Consider this a primer.

Jack is prepared for anything. He speaks four languages. He pilots planes and helicopters. He’s well versed in military strategy, current events, history, psychology, culture, politics, and protocol. He can hotwire a car, treat a sucking chest wound, and decrypt your encrypted files. To get up to speed, you’ll need a carefully selected reading list, a dozen college classes, and a few hundred hours of professional instruction. More importantly, though, Jack adapts quickly to changing situations. And so do you! As a woman—and perhaps as a wife and mother—adaptation is your strength. Remember when your mom left her entire estate to The Mormons, because a couple of bored missionaries offered to mow her front lawn one autumn afternoon? Remember when your first husband announced he was gay, then straight, then gay again? Remember when your eldest daughter dropped out of medical school to pursue her dream of playing the didgeridoo professionally? You adapted!

Next, Jack is physically robust, with muscles aplenty and a low body-fat percentage. As women, we probably can’t match that. As middle-aged women, we’d look silly trying. However, we each have a personal best, and there’s no good reason not to achieve it, and soon. When Katrina hit, perhaps you felt inclined to join other civilians rescuing abandoned pets; when the earthquake ravaged Haiti, perhaps you imagined yourself donning a Kevlar vest, strapping on an AK-47, and protecting much-needed food supplies from looters. So did I! But those dreams were soon quashed by the realization that my overweight, hypertensive self would merely get in the way. Also, I have only the vaguest idea what an AK-47 is. So, there’s much work to be done on this front. There’s a slightly smaller gap between fantasy and reality as we examine his third essential attribute…

Jack is emotionally robust. He doesn’t whine, burst into tears, or crawl into bed when things fail to go his way. He might want to, but—always the soldier, always the stoic—he refrains. He doesn’t have a never-quite-satisfied need for praise or reassurance. He doesn’t need others to agree with him or validate him. He’s the opposite of needy; he’s self-contained and interior. Next time you find yourself complaining about the raise that should have been yours, the son or daughter who didn’t call on your half-birthday, or the diminishing space between your bust line and your waistline, ask yourself WWJBD, and then spend an afternoon at the shooting range. Speaking of the shooting range…

Jack is dangerous. Like James Bond without the lame jokes, or Jason Bourne without the pesky memory loss, Jack is formidable. Granted, he has trained as a Special Forces soldier, and has worked for the CIA, FBI, and Counter-Terrorist Unit. I have not. It’s never too late, though…not for any of us. Self-defense is offered as a community ed class, and shooting ranges often advertise Women’s Night. The very earnest can seek out professional instruction in hand-to-hand combat and evasive driving techniques. Consider it an exciting alternative to spa day. And don’t worry for an instant about losing The Cute, and being mistaken for Rosa Klebb in “From Russia With Love.” Because…

Jack always looks terrific. Sure…he’s dressed for a particular brand of sexless action, in sturdy shoes, boot-cut jeans, a leather belt, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, and a canvas jacket. But he’s handsome, comfy, and protected from the elements. He has plenty of pockets. Most importantly, he’s not hampered by his fashion choices: His clothes increase—rather than decrease— his ability to respond effectively in an emergency. Add a little color/pattern/texture/shine to his outfit, and you, too, can be ready for anything. And unless you’re about to go through airport security, consider the ultimate accessory: a knife strapped to your calf. And jettison that most nonsensical accessory: the clutch. Instead, opt for something that leaves both hands free (see below).

Jack wears a canvas cross-body, chockfull of world-saving gizmos. It contains a laptop, a USB drive, an extra cell-phone battery, a monocular, a knife, a gun, and extra ammunition. In all likelihood, it also contains sunglasses, leather gloves, phone chargers, cable ties, waterproof matches, first-aid basics, a flashlight, several hundred dollars, and a couple of energy bars. Just imagine how powerful you’ll feel—how powerful you’ll be!--when equipped thus. You’ll never miss your Great Lash mascara or your Arby’s coupons.

Next, Jack keeps his word. Like other characters of the same ilk (Robert Crais’s Joe Pike, Robert Parker’s Spenser and Hawk), Jack does what he says he’ll do. He doesn’t agree to anything frivolously or casually, whether he’s talking to a girlfriend, a terrorist, or a Commander-in-Chief. He values the truth; he has no time for bullshit. How refreshing! How freeing! Let us commit to be trustworthy, to be true. Let us allow no exceptions.

And finally, Jack doesn’t engage in small talk or gossip. He’s comfortable with silence, with an unexpressed thought. It bothers him not at all that friends or strangers might perceive him as cold, unfriendly, or too intense. He’s not exactly humorless, but he doesn’t attempt to amuse by quoting lines from sitcoms, SNL sketches, or standup comedy routines. He avoids distractions; he doesn’t embrace them (despite ever-increasing encouragement to do so, especially among middle-class and affluent Americans). We can make these fairly easy changes, and we can make them today. We can take a break from the chatty, outgoing, beguiling, pleasing self we perfected in high school, and find a quiet place—a slightly menacing place—inside.

Perhaps you’re wondering why I didn’t choose a female role model. I mean, Peta Wilson portrayed TV’s deadly Nikita, and it seems that Angelina scores a new ass-kicking role every year. However, both women routinely squeeze into size-zero black leather pants. That seems more difficult, really, than learning to disarm a nuclear device.

And perhaps you think I’m attempting to diminish the importance of traditional feminine strengths such as nurturing, peacemaking, multi-tasking, and ovulating. I am not. Women—now more than ever—are an efficient lot. We can embrace both ways of being.

There’s much to be done, so let us begin. And since luck favors those with mental agility and sufficient bone density, let’s make significant progress before menopause looms large. Master one area and then move quickly to the next. And it won’t hurt to occasionally yell “Drop your weapon!”—to the postal carrier, the receptionist at work, the cat. Embrace the spirit of being Jack Bauer, and the rest will follow.

Tubby or Not Tubby

In a time-honored tradition called "re-frying the beans," I'm going to share an essay of mine that was first published in 1996 in Network magazine, "a monthly publication for progressive Utah women." They paid me fifty bucks, and won my heart by not changing a single word of the original manuscript (including the title). The table of contents describes the essay as tragicomic, which also pleased me. Is it wrong to want to make you laugh and cry? Here it is (enjoy the 90s pop-culture references):

Blame nature, blame nurture, blame Hostess, but, at 38, I glanced down and was horrified to find myself...not thin.

I distinctly recall losing weight during the Carter administration. I was motivated by the desire to...facilitate romantic relationships (although we used a shorter, more vulgar phrase in the '70s). But now, with a romantic relationship (well, a marriage) in place, I was forced to root around for another motivating factor, another way to trick myself into eating less and exercising more.

I began by dividing journal pages into two columns and labeling one Not Morbidly Obese and the other Morbidly Obese. Every morning, I imagined a situation and filled a new page. For example:

An elderly aunt dies, and, if I'm to collect my inheritance, I must attend the funeral. I look like a wistful French schoolgirl in black tights and flats. My large green eyes are moist, my clear skin is pale. Chestnut hair tumbles to my shoulders and frames my face, so lovely, so vulnerable. A 12-year-old niece cuddles up next to me on the pew and admires my dress, congratulates me on completing my surgical residency, and asks if I'm still dating the Grammy Award-winning folk guitarist. Later, a handsome cousin (whom I haven't seen since our 20s when he moved to San Francisco with his Siamese cat, Babs) hugs me tight, tells me I look good enough to eat, and asks where I work out. During the service (in fact, while we sing "Abide With Me"), I'm overcome with grief, and a young man who lived next door to my aunt when he was a boy holds me in his arms and gently strokes my hair. Later, he and I have coffee and stay up late talking about deforestation.

Or: I'm late for the funeral because I can't get the crotch of my black tights past my knees. By the time I stop at the store for anything queen size, and rush to the church, I'm flushed and tense. When a cousin asks when my baby is due, I laugh nervously and tell her I'm not pregnant. As I'm backing away from her, and--for some reason--apologizing, I bump into an arrangement of chrysanthemums and knock it to the floor. During the service (in fact, while we sing "Abide With Me"), I sob loudly, damply, convulsively...feeling sorry for myself, for my aunt, for her unfriendly little dogs that no one wants. I hear a child say, "Mommy, what's wrong with that fat lady?" and I flee to the restroom. I blow my nose and stare at this person in the mirror, at her blotchy, swollen face and hideous rayon dress, and think, "When did I stop liking myself?"

Okay. Wasn't that fun? It truly helps to add rich detail, even dialogue. Next:

I'm home alone when the doorbell rings. I pause the Cindy Crawford exercise video and take my pulse on the way to the door. When I open it, I see a six-foot, bearded stranger with a boyish grin. He introduces himself as my husband's college roommate, Tim, on his way to L.A. for a job interview. We sit cross-legged on the floor, chatting. We sip jasmine tea, and I peel and section tangerines. We flirt casually, and he plays Beatles' love songs on my guitar. I'm thinking about touching the dark curly hair at his open shirt collar, when I hear a car in the driveway. After kissing my husband, I excuse myself to take a shower. I slip into a pink cotton sundress, and the three of us go to dinner, then dancing.

Or: I'm lying on an unmade bed, wearing sweat pants and a men's XXL Save-the-Whales T-shirt that my mother-in-law sent for my birthday. I'm rereading a Mary Higgins Clark novel and eating frosted animal cookies. I leap up when I hear the bell, hoping it's a truant teenager selling overpriced peanut brittle door to door. But it's a very handsome man, who--after rechecking the address--claims to be my husband's college roommate. "Does he still live her?" he asks tactlessly. I invite him in, but my heart's not in it, and he opts to come back that evening. The two of them go out for beer and pizza, and I stay home and watch a Susan Powter infomercial.

You can imagine how inspiring this can be every morning before breakfast. A favorite:

My son and I eagerly enter the IMAX theater in San Diego to watch a movie about the Grand Canyon. I take a seat and pull my knees up under my chin, ready to enjoy the magic that a 40-foot screen offers. I'm comfy in old jeans, a white cotton T-shirt, and Deja Shoes from the Real Goods catalog. Before the lights go down, I feel a tap on my shoulder, turn around, and recognize David, a man I dated briefly in high school. I squeal with delight, stand, and throw my arms around his warm neck. We gush over each other's children, and I shake hands with his wife, who seems shy but sweet. I can't stop smiling and touching him: his hands, his clean-shaven face, his well-pressed chinos. After the movie, we walk out together, arm in arm, sharing private jokes and memories. Right before we make his wife cry, we embrace and part, but not before I slip my business card into his shirt pocket.

Or: I'm exhausted after a day of wandering through museums, and I feel like a tired old cow as we're herded into the auditorium. I collapse into the uncomfortable seat, its armrests digging into my thighs. While sitting quietly with my eyes closed, I feel a tap on my shoulder and ignore it. When I feel it again, I look behind me and recognize David. I stare at him, his pretty wife, their golden-haired daughter. He says, "Polly?" I say, "No." He persists: "Polly Nelson?" I see my son, confused, a little worried. "You've made a mistake," I say, my voice breaking. After the show, we leave quickly, but not quickly enough. I see David watching me as I file out in too-short polyester slacks with elastic at the waist, a color-blocked tunic, and extra-wide brown leather slip-ons from Naturalizer. He puts his arm around his wife's slender waist, and they head for the other exit.

***

There it is, minus a sappy one-paragraph conclusion. And, of course, now I want to indulge in a post-menopausal version:

I'm stranded at the airport in Colorado Springs. A blizzard led to the unscheduled landing, and now all flights have been canceled, and all ground transportation has been shut down. I'm surrounded by weary and frustrated strangers, in the middle of a moonless night. It's chilly in the airport, but I'm comfy and cute in boot-cut jeans, lug-soled shoes, a red cashmere cardigan over a white cotton tank, and a chocolate-brown wool coat that hits right above the knee. People probably mistake me for Olivia Benson's self-possessed aunt.

I sip tea from a styrofoam cup, and notice--several rows away--a Spanish-speaking woman and her three small children, including an infant. I speak fluent Spanish (after completing an immersion program last year), so I head on over, after buying an armload of SunChips and Juicy Juice. (Phone lines are down, and vendors are unable to accept credit cards, but I have plenty of cash.) I introduce myself to the mom, we chat briefly about the lousy weather, and I offer the treats. Soon, I'm holding the baby (it was inevitable). The toddlers busy themselves with the spiral notebooks and colored markers that fill my carry-on (I'd been on my way to a cabin in Telluride where I was going to write a surprisingly good novel). Later, after much storytelling and a song or two (I manage--on the fly--to translate "Puff, the Magic Dragon"), they fall asleep, and I cover them with my coat. A handsome gray-haired man sitting nearby dog-ears his Bill Bryson paperback and asks if he can be of help. I send him for diapers, and he also brings back a four-cheese pizza. We talk for hours, and I fall asleep with my head on his shoulder. By the following afternoon, the storm clears, and we continue on to our destinations, after a lot of hugging.

Or: During the rough landing in Colorado Springs, it occurs to me that I should have carried on a coat, my blood-pressure medication, something to read, and more than a couple dollars in cash. As we deplane, I say a silent prayer of thanks that it wasn't necessary to use the emergency slides, because someone might have captured my descent on video, posted it on youtube, and labeled it "This looks like the birth of a baby whale...he he." Eventually, I find a seat and plop down, feeling angry and lonely. My clothes and shoes fit poorly, and I yearn to be stretched out on the sofa at home in oversized PJs and no bra. I want to visit the restroom, and get a drink of water, but I'm afraid someone will take my seat and I'll have to sprawl unattractively on the floor. People probably mistake me for one of Marge Simpson's lesser-known sisters.

My husband is under the impression I'm on my way to a cabin in Telluride to begin writing a novel, but my plan all along has been to hole up at the Holiday Inn, watching "Office" reruns and ordering room service (novel writing is best left to smarter and more tenacious folks). While rummaging around for a piece of unwrapped gum in the bottom of my purse, I notice--several rows away--a Spanish-speaking woman and her three small children. They look as miserable as I feel. I regret my failed attempts to learn Spanish, because I'd like to befriend the woman and hold her fretful baby. Instead, I try to make out the title of the book being read by the middle-aged man sitting across from me. Sure enough...it's "A Walk in the Woods," a book I recently enjoyed. The man looks up, catches my eye, and quickly turns away. I wrap my arms around my carry-on, and stare into the middle distance, trying to ignore a persistent ache in my left shoulder and a vague tightness in my chest. It's going to be a long night.

***

Well. Not quite as much fun as it was fourteen years ago. Right now, I feel a little hypertensive, a lot depressed, and not at all inclined to "facilitate romantic relationships" with my husband or anyone else. But I'll rally: I'll have a cup of tea, and shop online for the perfect chocolate-brown wool coat that hits right above the knee. That's how lives get turned around. Really.

Injuring Eternity

A couple times a year, I find myself home alone for a few days. I could ask myself the following questions: What color should I paint the bedroom? What combination of annuals and perennials should I plant near the porch? In what Spanish immersion program should I enroll? Instead, I ask: What TV crime drama is featuring a marathon this weekend? A "CSI"? A "Law & Order"? Or my personal favorite: "Criminal Minds"? I perch on the couch with an assortment of tacos and empanadas, with a diet Dr. Pepper the size of a bathroom wastebasket, and--during the next twelve hours--I get up twice to pee, and once to check my email. I'm comfy in PJs, and I'm toasty beneath a patchwork quilt. I'm perfectly content, despite unwashed dishes and unbrushed teeth. "I wonder what the world is doing now," I remember from "Walden": an idle thought formed during idle times. But I don't feel the need to peek through the curtains, or turn to CNN. This weekend, my curiosity about the rest of the world is shallow, and fleeting. I'm busy wasting time.

Sounds fun, doesn't it. And it is, as long as privacy (even secrecy) is assured. But I'm conflicted about my rights and responsibilities, and conflict--inevitably--leads to blogging, which--less inevitably--leads to resolution.

In my twenties, I supported myself by working one full-time job and an additional summer job. In my thirties, I continued to earn a living, paying half of the shared bills and fully participating in the rearing of a child. I even enjoyed a stint as sole breadwinner while my husband was in graduate school. Since leaving the workforce at age forty, I've home-schooled a high school student; fostered dozens of puppies; completed several college classes; earned spending money by typing, editing, and bookkeeping; provided excellent care for a couple of the world's cutest toddlers; sewn hundreds of dresses for hundreds of little girls; and maintained a home. "Thanks for earning a living," I tell my husband. "Thanks for doing everything else," he graciously replies.

But for a decade (or maybe a lifetime), I've struggled with feelings of laziness. The problem is this: I'm convinced that idle time must be earned, and I haven't worked hard enough to earn it. I'm not a longshoreman or a coal miner or an Army Ranger. I'm not sore and sweaty at the end of the day. The only decent thing to do is to keep working, so I load the dishwasher, replace a broken zipper on a well-worn pair of jeans, edit a friend's neatly typed personal history. But--rather soon--I'm jonesing for down-time: for the opportunity to read another review of "The Road," to curl up on an unmade bed with an affectionate cat, to compile a mental list of men who've seen me in my underpants. This inability to maintain the momentum of labor makes me uneasy, yet I'm disinclined to change. The resulting cognitive dissonance is driving me mad (or at least pissing me off).

Once, at a Jesuit-run retreat, I was chatting with a monk. Or a priest. Or maybe just some guy. He was older, and charming, and we did the dishes together after dinner. He didn't exactly flirt, but I could tell he liked me. He'd noticed my unease earlier when the retreatants introduced themselves and told what they did for a living. "You think that paid labor is the only worthwhile labor, don't you," he said. Yes, I said. "And yet the paid labor you perform is minimal," he said. Yes, I said. "So you think that the doctors and social workers and school teachers and hairdressers at the dinner table tonight are more important than you, and more interesting," he said. Yes, I said. "Are you going to change what you do, or are you going to change how you feel about what you do?" he asked. Then we had ice cream, and walked back to our dorm together. It was muddy, and he offered his arm.

Self-described Frugal Zealot (and homemaker) Amy Dacyczyn solved the problem of unpaid labor by working exactly the same number of hours her husband worked. I can see how this might be effective for some. But not only does my husband work a lot of hours, I can't tell by looking if he's working or not. Sure...he's gazing at the computer screen, occasionally clicking the mouse. Is he putting the finishing touches on the final report of a lucrative contract? Is he deleting the latest right-wing political rant forwarded by his mom? Or is he gazing at Angelina's breastfeeding photos, with a combination of admiration and lust, but mostly lust? How can I know? And if I can't know, how can I possibly decide how to spend my time: whether to shop around for better health insurance, to sew flannel sleep pants to donate to the women's shelter, or to read a Robert Parker novel in the bathtub? I have no idea how others navigate these treacherous shoals. Maybe this will always be a mystery to those of us with Some College.

The issue of idle time is somewhat clearer for those with nine-to-five jobs (or even the stay-at-home spouses of those with nine-to-five jobs). At the end of a shift, they do the requisite chores, and whatever time is left between that hour and bedtime is theirs. But this, too, has never been clear to me: When, exactly, are the chores done? When does idle-time commence? Granted, I usually err on the side of "too soon" rather than "not soon enough." But...how clean should the house be? How decluttered the closets? How much time given over to charitable causes? How many letters written to loved ones, to soldiers in the field, to congressmen? How much personal grooming? How much political activism? How many hours spent on self-improvement, whether it's a community-ed course, a step-aerobics DVD, or another chapter in a George Eliot novel? When are we officially done?

Because the answer is hidden from me, I'm choosing to knock off now. But because the people I love usually choose to knock off later, I'm forced to do most of my time-wasting in secret. Yes...forced. I've convinced myself that a puritanical, tyrannical, and wholly invented version of my husband is holding a gun to my head and saying, "Be productive, or lose my respect." (The imagined gun seems unnecessary, but mildly erotic.) I can't stand it, and I flee. I do much of my time-wasting in a parked car (sometimes--ironically--in an idling car). At home, I do my time-wasting behind a locked door, or after my husband is asleep. I watch "Pride and Prejudice" again, on cable at 3 a.m., and feel like I'm getting away with something. It's intoxicating...the feeling that I'm not being monitored and judged by grown-ups. (As an aside, I couldn't help but notice recently that Mr. Darcy never says the words, "So, Miss Bennet, what do you do for a living?")

I've now been writing for hours, and I still feel unpleasantly fuzzy on this subject. So, in what my hardworking husband would probably consider a colossal waste of time, I'm going to examine the meaning of "wasting time." To that end, I've divided time-use into five tiers.

Tier 1 includes tasks that are both necessary and productive: earning a living (adequate to meeting all of your needs and some of your wants) and caring for dependents (children, the elderly, the disabled, and pets).

Tier 2 includes tasks that are also necessary and productive, but maybe a tad less urgent: meeting medical and dental needs; performing civic duties such as voting and jury duty; paying bills, taxes, and insurance premiums; and maintaining a home and car. I spend quite a bit of time in this tier, performing what my husband refers to as non-revenue-generating tasks.

Tier 3 includes tasks that are productive, but not necessary. We usually call these hobbies, and they can be physical (like swimming), or creative (like cake decorating), or competitive (like chess), or all three (like ballroom dancing). Generally, these activities are perceived as purposeful and results-driven; only a curmudgeon would suggest that engaging thus is a waste of time.

Tier 4 includes tasks that are neither productive nor necessary, but are fun. This tier includes entertainment (like Disneyland) and socializing (like sharing a banana split with a girlfriend while discussing the most flattering skirt style and Daniel Craig's performance in "Defiance").

Tier 5 is the unpleasant, to-be-avoided tier, and the only one that rises to the occasion of "wasting time." It includes tasks that are not productive, necessary, or fun. There's no reason to visit this tier--ever!--and yet I do (for example, tonight I watched "The Cleveland Show"). This tier includes mindless channel surfing and web surfing. In fact, mindlessness is the hallmark of Tier 5. If you're visiting this tier, you probably have a look of weariness, or contempt. It includes attending a boring party, or embarking on a miserable vacation.

The amount of cross-over boggles the mind. In which tier would I place having sex? Visiting the Lincoln Memorial? Learning PowerPoint? Shopping for the perfect blue jeans? Making key-lime pie? Reading the Century's 100 Best Novels? (And would it make a difference if I were reading the novels for college credit versus my own edification?) What about taking my five-year-old nephew to the aquarium, and then making sugar cookies together, and then discussing the concept of "crying wolf"? The answers: Any tier but the fifth tier.

Ah-ha! I can see now that I failed to differentiate between idle time and wasted time. I was wrong about the "Criminal Minds" marathon: It wasn't wasted time, because I was happy! I was shamelessly, delightfully present! Perhaps the idle time was unearned, but I can fix that. I can take the monk's advice and either get a job (a paying job, or a minimum number of hours per week spent on Tier 1 and Tier 2 activities) or get a different attitude (a healthy and liberating apathy concerning earned-versus-unearned idle time).

Idle time is a pleasure, a gift, a blessing, an opportunity. Those of us who have it--whether a little or a lot--are lucky beyond measure. I'm going to spend more time enjoying it, celebrating it, basking in it...and less time (maybe no time!) second-guessing my right to it.