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.

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.

On Embarrassment

My most embarrassing moment took place at Lagoon, an amusement park north of Salt Lake City. I was in my mid-thirties, and agreed to spend a Saturday thus. (What led to this baffling choice? Would I have agreed—that day—to go to a meat-packing plant? A medical-research lab? A public swimming pool? Why this moment of compliance, of familial cooperation?) A dozen family members were in attendance. The day was hot, and I was fat. Nothing good was going to happen.

I went on a ride or two, and it wasn’t awful. I had a corndog, a Coke, maybe a fistful of someone’s cotton candy. I reapplied sunscreen. Then, my ten-year-old niece said, “Ooh! Paddle boats!” and I chose poorly. We stood in line, we handed a teenage boy our tickets, and I gingerly stepped aboard a paddle boat.

Immediately, the boat took on water, soaking my tennis shoe. I heard someone giggle. I felt my face turn warm and pink. I should have slowly backed away; I should have reminded myself that there’s no shame in changing one’s mind. Instead, I heaved my bulky self into the paddle boat, next to my brave and lovely niece.

The seats were designed for someone (anyone!) with smaller hips, and I didn’t fit. So, instead of sitting between the metal pieces that defined the seat area, I perched atop the metal pieces that defined the seat area. Despite my well-cushioned butt, it was not comfortable, and I hoped to paddle around the man-made lake (maybe 200 yards in diameter) in record time.

It was not to be. More than fifteen years later, I still insist that our boat was faulty in some respect. Despite my weight, I was able to paddle, as was my able-bodied niece. Even so, when we were as far away from shore as possible, the boat slowed, stopped, and refused to budge. When we got any momentum going at all, we went in tight circles. The sun beat down on us, and I ached from head to toe. I yelled at my niece: “Steer, goddamnit!” Therein lies my greatest shame.

Five minutes passed, then ten. I saw my loved ones gathering at the dock, watching. What I didn’t see (‘cause it wasn’t happening) was the launch of a rescue boat. I can’t imagine that we were the first boat to ever experience distress. Not a single heart attack? A hyperactive child tumbling into the drink? A group of pot-smoking teens refusing to come ashore? I considered the possibility of jumping ship, but didn’t know if the water was three feet deep, or a hundred feet deep, teeming with carp or sewage or the bloated corpses of folks like me (I’m not a strong swimmer).

Eventually, we hit on the right combination of paddling and steering and crying, and we reached dry land. There were snickers from the crowd. There were even some well-placed jabs from family members. I attempted to look sheepish, but not devastated, as I climbed out of the boat and moved to my husband’s side. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly. “Sure,” I said, knowing that I’d never be as comfortable in the world as I was before the paddle-boat debacle. “I’m okay.”

Later, I apologized to my niece, and she was congenial and forgiving, shrugging it off, as is her way. It’s probably not too late to buy her a very expensive gift.

Well, that’s my most embarrassing moment, and it didn’t kill me to share it with you. Another time, I soiled myself at a campground near Monterey, California, while suffering from labyrinthitis. And once, I thought a boy invited me to an Elton John concert, when he was simply attempting to discern my level of interest (“Would you like to go?”), and he had actually invited my friend Heather (a fact that I discovered only after shopping for a new outfit, shaving my legs, and slathering on the Coty Wild Musk). And my favorite embarrassment: the verbal assumption that I was pregnant, when I was not (at least three times by adults, and oh-so-many-more times by children).

So, let’s break it down. Embarrassment seems to require a degree of public scrutiny. I don’t recall ever being embarrassed when home alone (unless I was imagining public scrutiny). Someone (or everyone) must know about said behavior in order to feel the sting of embarrassment.

It helps (or hurts) if there’s a degree of personal responsibility. Sure…it’s possible to be embarrassed because of something that happens accidentally—something that is not my fault—but it won’t smart as much, or as long.

And violations of physical privacy are fertile ground for embarrassment, as is anything to do with elimination or sex.

Usually, though, embarrassment is the result of a glaring lack: of knowledge, accomplishment, experience, sophistication, or physical, financial, or emotional fitness. Once, at a spiritual retreat (during liturgy, no less), I sobbed noisily for the duration of “Hallelujah” as performed by Rufus Wainwright. Only later did that seem like a silly-ass thing to do, and I was embarrassed. (Since then, I’ve tried to be more emotionally robust. I remind myself that I’m refraining, not repressing.)

One can certainly be embarrassed by the actions of a loved one, but this feels a bit different (like a painful form of compassion). When this happens, I try to move past the embarrassment by asking myself, “How can I help?”

During a recent conversation with my husband, we agreed that “avoiding possible embarrassment” is a poor reason to shrink from doing something we truly want to do, what with life being short and all. Easier said than done, and I continue to “delay” all kinds of activities because I’m not feeling confident, or cute. We also agreed that (a) we want to eliminate some of our embarrassing behavior; (b) we want to be less embarrassed by some of our embarrassing behavior; and (c) a certain degree of embarrassment (in response to embarrassing behavior) is a good thing, and healthy, and—in theory—serves to shape behavior in the right direction.

I knew a man who happily farted in public (small, perky, odorless farts), without becoming horrified or even saying “excuse me.” At first, I thought it was cool (so natural! so hip!), but later I thought it was gross (so impolite, so out-of-my-life-forever).

It’s pretty to think that one reaches a certain age and no longer engages in embarrassing behavior. That is not my experience. In my fifties, I do embarrassing things all the time. However, I’m less likely to castigate myself (maybe because I’m more evolved now, but maybe because castigation is a lot of work). Here in middle age, forgiveness is my friend, and self-forgiveness is my dearest friend. If I laugh nervously and too loud, if I mispronounce “Goethe,” if my handsome neighbor happens to pull up next to my parked car while I’m eating a Peanut Buster Parfait, if that same neighbor is next in line at the grocery store when my Visa card is declined (for no good reason), if I’m chatting with my cousin and I vehemently denounce the girls-only store Sweet & Sassy only to have my cousin's eight-year-old daughter enter the room and happily reveal that she celebrated her birthday there just days before with thirty of her closest friends…

Well, I’m able to forgive myself all of that, and remain relatively unembarrassed.

That said, I haven’t been in a paddle boat since that dreadful day, and I avert my eyes when they show up unexpectedly in movies or novels. My husband is of the opinion that one ought to pile up (similar) good experiences to ameliorate the effects of a bad experience, so maybe I’ll do that, eventually. But, clearly, now is too soon, so I’ll curl up on the couch, reliving the horror, remembering the shame of “Steer, goddamnit!”

Overeating, Overspending, and Me

I'm struck--yet again--by the similarities between overeating and overspending. One is a decent substitute for the other, but it's unclear which is heroin, and which is methadone; I suppose it's dependent on mood. Both nasty habits are similar to a third: sex online with strangers. (I won't delve too deeply into that subject, because it's tawdry even by my relaxed standards.) All three trade long-term joy for short-term pleasure, self-respect for self-disgust, and sometimes-painful mindfulness for sometimes-blissful distraction.

Years ago, I quit chatting online, and I anticipate similar success as I quit overeating and overspending. I anticipate becoming a healthy, energetic, debt-free cutie-pie with a well-funded retirement account. Any. Minute. Now.

When I relax into the temptations of overeating and overspending--and the clerks at Krispy Kreme and TJ Maxx greet me like an old friend--I feel (by turns) excited, outgoing, energized, busy, clever, liberated, secretive, ashamed, burdened, and uncomfortably full. When I strive to overcome the temptations of overeating and overspending--and I eat wholesome foods to satiety, and buy what enriches my life without cluttering my life--I feel (by turns) peaceful, mindful, healthy, content, disciplined, unfettered, wistful, jealous, listless, and peckish. If I choose to follow one path, I cannot successfully follow the other path.

The path of eating and spending in moderation will lead to more and better rewards, but...not today. To reap the rewards, I need to stay on the path...for months, for years. Early on, this path is recognizable only by what's not there: double cheeseburgers with fries, pecan pie with ice cream, Rachael Ray's line of brightly colored kitchenware, a cashmere cardigan with shell buttons and three-quarter-length sleeves. Early on, this path looks like the Black Rock Desert, like an abandoned factory, and I feel lonely in such a desolate place. For me, the buddy system is an illusion, and a Weight Watchers meeting or Debtors Anonymous meeting is worse than the first day at a new high school. This is a solitary journey.

In my experience, there's only one thing to do: Embrace the solitude. Embrace, even, Jung's "legitimate suffering." Empty deserts and empty factories are fierce and frightening places, but it's not necessary to flee. I can plant my flag here. I can brew a cup of tea, and ride this out. The rewards are vast, and the journey--even the third or fourth time--is compelling.

Here, I want to examine the intersections of overeating and overspending, so that I can be attentive when approaching them. (Of course, I'm only an expert on me, and I don't presume to know what you do when no one's looking.)

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are terrific (if temporary) stress reducers. And god bless 'em for it. Both go a long way toward seeming to fix: (a) cabin fever; (b) marital strife; (c) too many pets, bills, and unread classics; (d) too few long baths, marketable skills, and attentive listeners; and (e) the always-there, never-quite-gone feelings of fear, frustration, regret, boredom, and worry. Worried about a new mole? Worried about failing to embrace Alan Arkin's advice in "Little Miss Sunshine"? Worried about not taking a meaningful risk since Jimmy Carter left office? Well, I'll feel much better if I start my binge at Taco Bell, swing by Barnes & Noble, and finish up at Dairy Queen.

Solution: I can take a deep breath, and consider the possibility that my life--as is--can be borne, can be endured. I'm sure much of my stress would magically disappear if I had a real problem to deal with, like cancer or civil war. In fact, I make myself more vulnerable to stress (and everything else) by not being prepared for physical or financial emergencies. So, next time I feel anxious, I'll turn and face the demon. If I can't do something productive--something that directly addresses the problem--I'll embrace the stress, knowing that it's not likely to kill me.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are crimes of opportunity, and--for me--the "bargain" presents an almost irresistible opportunity. Deals are everywhere: 80-percent off, 90-percent off, buy-one-get-one. Here's a coupon! Here's a book of coupons! Have a dollar? Here's three tacos! Have five dollars? Here's a pink cotton sweater! The most difficult challenge is anything that is free: a thick slice of buttered bread at Great Harvest, half an egg roll at Costco, an oatmeal cookie at a health fair. And those little snacks--given so generously, so innocently--flip a switch in my head, and thirty pounds later I can trace my falling-off-the-wagon moment to that goddamn health fair.

Solution: As a minimum, I can stay away from clearance sales, bakeries, and the drive-thru window at McDonalds. I might also want to consider a less black-and-white approach to everything. It's not necessary to deny myself the pleasure of new socks or a coat that fits; it's not necessary to hide behind a locked door when the neighbor girls deliver a plate of cookies. I can learn to see the difference between eating and overeating, between spending and overspending.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are often preceded by disappointment: in me, in others, and sometimes in the very thing I eat or buy. I've resumed bingeing (and/or spent a fruitful afternoon at Ross-Dress-for-Less) when I received an email from a woman asking that I stop flirting with her husband, when I had to remind my sister that it was my birthday, and when my a la carte chicken enchilada had too much cilantro. It's crushing! It's more than I can bear! I've suffered enough!

Solution: I can acknowledge that disappointment is difficult, and some of us handle it better than others. My husband once waited until I was in a cheerful mood, and suggested that I learn to manage my expectations. Since then, it occurred to me that maybe I want to be derailed: I'm devastated, so I'm allowed to overeat and overspend, right?

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are--duh--encouraged by advertisers. It feels inescapable, especially late at night when I'm watching TV or surfing the 'net, when my resolve is weakened by the need for sleep. I must have that crab-cake sandwich, or those corduroy pants with a 36-inch inseam. Wherever I look, someone is encouraging me to eat more or spend more, and it's easy to feel ambushed, and to surrender.

Solution: Resist already! I can see it for what it is, and I remind myself that I already have more than enough.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are encouraged (to some degree) by loved ones. "You should buy that," my sister says. "It's eight dollars, it's darling, and it's so you. Didn't you have an olive-drab sweater just like that when you were dating ___?" and she speaks the name of someone I loved and lost. I cradle the sweater in my arms, harking back to a simpler time, reaching into my purse for a ten-dollar bill. Later, we're at a sandwich shop, and she offers to share her huge snickerdoodle with me. "No, thank you," I say, and she's crestfallen. I love her, and I'm responsible for the dejected look on her face. I change my mind about the snickerdoodle, and all is right in our world.

Solution: I can find a way to love and be loved without overeating or overspending. And I can learn to enjoy both habits vicariously: my niece's Victoria's Secret catalog order, a friend's new kitchen counters, my dad's bowl of mostaccioli or cioppino...I can appreciate something without eating it or owning it. (And, as a bonus, I get to feel smug for resisting.)

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are social habits, and often feel integral to celebrating, visiting, and vacationing. They're handy when saying I like you, I love you, I want to get to know you better, I want to impress you, I'm sorry, and thank you.

Solution: I can remind myself that all of these situations can be handled with moderate eating and spending, or--better yet--with something that requires more imagination.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending tend to result in choosing quantity over quality. By definition, they lead to excess, which for most people means a whole lotta crap. I'm reminded of a vacation several years ago when, one afternoon, I drove twenty miles to buy an ice cream cone at the Tillamook cheese factory in Oregon. I watched as a girl made waffles, which became waffle cones; she filled a still-warm cone with Marion Berry Cheesecake ice cream for me, and I happily paid $4 for it. I sat alone on the patio, in the warm sunshine, grinning at children and dogs, eating my treat. A week later, back in Utah, I bought a low-fat vanilla cone at McDonalds for $1 and ate it while driving home. I was struck by the difference between the two experiences. My first thought was, "I need to move--alone--to Tillamook," but even I knew that was unreasonable.

Solution: I can learn to slow down and ask myself if what I'm about to eat or buy is exactly what I want. I can reject the easy choices: those things that are merely okay, that are convenient, that are habits, that are attractive only because they are bargains. I can hold out for a Tillamook ice cream cone every time.

Falls the Shadow

A dozen times, I've lost and regained fifty pounds or so. Twice, I've lost and regained more than a hundred pounds. The challenge seems to be the once-and-for-all part. My friend Claire said that regaining weight is one of her hobbies, like photography or adultery. "There will always be another binge," she said. "It's never the last one. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow...no, probably tomorrow...tomorrow's looking good...."

Considering my past performance, I won't give weight-loss advice. Rather, I'll share a list of my favorite things about being fat.

• Every day is a party. All the best refreshments are served, in the most generous quantities. Here in my suburban America, there is no shortage of food. Armed with my debit card, my Happenings coupon book, and my cotton jeans with two-percent Spandex, I sit happily eating chips and salsa, sipping Dr. Pepper, while someone does the hunting and gathering for me. I smile warmly; I tip generously. If I can't find a companion for lunch, I opt for fast food at a drive-up window, and enjoy a private party in my Honda. I find a shady spot to park, recline the seat a bit, and listen to Neil Young's "Decade" CD. With enough carbs and saturated fats, it's bliss.
• Other women love me, because I make them look good. Of course, Claire loves me because I'm warm and witty and openhearted, and because I remember her birthday, and because I sat quietly and smiled patiently during a twenty-minute rant regarding "...what my effing mother-in-law said about that aubergine cocktail dress I ordered from Victoria's Secret." But Claire also loves me because the dress is a size 14, and it's a little tight on her, but she looks gorgeous compared to me. Lately, my bottom half looks like a blue-denim sack in which an Idaho farmer is storing his bumper crop of potatoes. Claire knows that, and she still loves me, but she stands a little taller knowing that when we go to Mi Ranchito, the cute Hispanic waiter will grin slowly at her, and not at me.
• Children love me (especially sedentary children). What's not to love? I always have treats, my body is like a huge warm pillow, and I'm not easily distracted (because being distracted requires a modicum of energy that I do not possess). I stretch out next to the treats, smile at the much-loved child, and let him or her know that I care about safety and good manners, but not much else. I'm a good listener, and I'm a fairly good teacher. Unconditional positive regard fills the room (or the Honda). In that moment, my BMI doesn't matter all that much.
• My wardrobe is simplicity itself. You know that feeling when you're going out-of-town for a romantic weekend, and you spend several hours trying on every item of clothing you own in an attempt to find the cutest, most flattering, most come-hither items? When you're finished, you're knee-deep in rejects but you have half a dozen outfits that are perfect, and you fold them lovingly and place them gently into a tapestry carry-on, along with some jewelry and a couple of silk nighties? Sure...that's one way to do it. It's time-consuming, though, and requires a lot of pesky decision-making. I'm currently limiting my wardrobe to a pair of jeans and two shirts, which is humble even by my standards. But it's not a problem, because...
• I don't go anywhere or do anything. It's easier that way, really. Home is usually a happy place, what with cable TV, roomy sleep pants, a variety of cookie-making ingredients, and pets who love me as much as kids love me. And by staying home, I avoid the horrified glances of those who saw me a year or two ago when I weighed considerably less. When I was friendly and bold and flirtatious. When I didn't go to bed feeling all gassy, and wake up feeling all headachy. When my knees didn't ache all the time, and when I wasn't in the habit of eating warm German chocolate frosting out of a saucepan.
• My marriage is rock solid (assuming--and this might be a stretch--that the only possible threat to my marriage is my unwillingness to embrace monogamy). At this weight, I embrace the hell out of monogamy. I don't seek out other men; I seldom even think about other men (take that, Other Men!). And, sure, it feels like prison, but a warm and cozy split-level prison. Anyway, all that wing-stretching can grow tiresome: He loved me, so he set me free, and I flew back, and I gained a hundred pounds, and he's probably wishing he'd moved out (without leaving a forwarding address) after he set me free that last time.
  
• I feel nothing. Joy, equanimity, anticipation, grief, dread, outrage...all nearly forgotten remnants of a healthier past. The complete numbness is--really--quite a treat. The pills I take today have names like key-lime pie, churro, Italian sub, gyro, roasted cashews. My body is so well fueled by food that my motor is always running, and it feels like 737's are revving up in here, and stillness and grace and serenity have long since fled.
  
• Obesity is a problem that will eventually fix itself. It's similar to owning a car or a house, and failing to address problems as they arise. One day, you find you're overwhelmed by all that has gone wrong: The car leaks transmission fluid and pulls to the right; the interior reeks of rotting fruit (even though you can't remember a single time you've eaten fruit in this car). The house is stupid with slow drains, poorly sealed windows, and the stench of cat box. Good news? You can sell the car, sell the house, and your problems magically become the problems of someone else. Obesity is kind of like that. All of the things you hate about your life (an unfinished correspondence course, a slightly prolapsed uterus, an emotional distance between you and your only brother, a tendency toward sloth) will go away the instant you stroke out after a brisk five-minute walk across a crowded parking lot.