Fuck. So my post-doctor's visit freak out is about something totally unrelated to what I was concerned about.

It's about stepping on the scale.

I don't have a scale, I don't believe in scales, I try to never use scales. But I looked today when I was weighed at the doctor.

187.

187.

That's nearly 200 lbs.

I need to face facts. I'm overweight. First it was "no worries until I'm over 160," then "no worries until I'm over a size 12," then "no worries until my clothes don't fit." Well, all those things have happened. I'm well over 160, I'm a size 14 on a good day, and my clothes don't fit. I've gained well over 30 lbs. since high school, and probably 20 since I graduated from college. Worse yet, I've gained another 10 at least since I've been in Texas.

It's got to stop.

And I don't know if I can do that.

I'm feeling better about the weight stuff--I am much more confident that I can do something about it if it's that important to me. And given the very important point Mark brought up about the vericosity in my legs already and the compounding effect extra weight has on that problem, it is becoming very important to me.

But enough about that.

I am finished with my first semester at LBJ--the final yesterday went fine and now I really do have time off. I'm already nervous about the prospect (yeah, right) of learning enough calc to take the validation exam in January, but I'm going to give myself a couple more days before I start freaking out about that or my PRP paper. This is, after all, supposed to be vacation, and it's bad enough that I have to work 3 days/week during my supposed "vacation."

I'm having a good morning at work this morning, though. I finally found data for two of the things that were hanging over my head from the maternal and child health indicators list. I knew they were there all along, it has just taken ages to find them. I should take another look at the JJ stuff while I'm on a roll.

My baking bonanza was a partial success. My biscotti didn't meet the Mark test, and some of my shortbread broke and thus became Mark's tea biscuits, but I think everything else is OK. The gingerbread men and sugar cookies look nice, and I'm pretty confident the pound cakes will be good. The fudge is a little bit soft, but it should harden over the next couple of days, and soft fudge isn't the worst thing in the world. So tonight I need to start getting it all packaged up and sent off. The problem is that there are other things I wnat to send to some of the folks I am planning to ship it too. I think I might just skip that, though. No need to let Christmas be overwelming. I got about half a dozen cards sent out on Tuesday as well, so that's going pretty well. Need to do some more tonight. Writing out Christmas cards makes me feel strangely grown up, and signing Mark's name to them as well as my own makes me feel...married. It's odd, but sort of nice, in the same way it's nice to refer to Mark and Chancey as my "family."

Emily is off to stay with her parents for a few days. Her mom really sounds like she's not doing well, and I apparently I am talking about it a lot, because Mark said something last night about how surprised he is at the effect it's having on me. It's really two things, I think. The first is Emily and wanting to be able to make her feel better and knowing it's simply not possible, and the second is fear that this means my mom could get sick, too. I simply cannot fathom my mother being terminally ill. It's beyond my capacity to comprehend.

Those of you who have never lived with me (which, by my count, would be all of you) do not realize this about me: I have a bit of a food obsession problem. I find a food I like and then I want to eat nothing but that, and I eat it gluttonously until I am so sick of it I never want to look at it again. Inevitably, I pick really awful foods. This has happened with both Entemann's coffee cake and Entemann's chocolate covered donuts, for example. Frozen strawberries (pre-sugared) were another favorite, as were strawberry and lime all-fruit popsicles. In my coffee cake prime, I ate three a week, easily. Between Halloween and Thanksgiving it was frosted sugar cookies from the bakery at H.E.B. I ate five at a time. I'm not even kidding. Two or three ten-count cartons a week. It can get ugly.

Right now, Nocello (so, so so much better Italian version of Nutella) and raw apples is my food obession. Because I am calorie and weight and nutrition concious now, unlike before, I am holding myself to only having my snack (one sliced up raw apple and two tablespoons of Nocello, and yes, I measure it out) once a day. I'm very proud of my restraint. The problem, though, is that my theory about this has always been to let myself have as much as I want, and eventually (usually in two weeks or so) the craving runs out and I don't 'want it anymore. If I only have apples and Nocello once a day, though, is that going to happen? Or I am going to be a maintence apple-and-Nocello-holic, having to have my one apple and Nocello a day to survive?

(Note: After some time passes, my relationship with my previously-obsessee foods seems to even out. For example, I am now able to eat small(ish) quantitites of coffee cake and donuts, or have ONE popsicle, rather than one box of popsicles. I'm not ready to test the sugar cookies yet, though.)

Having given some more thought to my Bennifer Breakup Disappointment, I think it is about fairy tales. In my adult life, Hollywood suffices for fairy tales, make believe, too much of the time. And given that it's supposed to be "too good to be true" it is sad that the relationships never work out. So when a couple for whom I actually have some positive feeling breaks up, it makes me question whether or not I believe in fairy tales.

If that makes any sense, which, now that I write it down, it doesn't.

To further humiliate myself, I will admit that I hope Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston are very happy as well.

Moving on, today was a really good day. It was rainy and gray and my head hurts a lot still, but it was still really nice. Hung out at home, had an excellent and ass-kicking workout--all in all, good stuff.

I think it is going to be possible for me to go to Washington in April for the March for Choice, which makes me really happy. I knew I wanted to go, but I didn't think it would be fiscally possible. The North Texas PP, however, is giving scholarships to full-time students so we can go for only $75, and that pays for airfare and two nights in a hotel. SWEET!! So as long as my application gets there before all the slots are full, which it should, I think, I should be in. So all I have to figure out is how to get from here to Dallas and back for the flight (and I'm sure there will be carpools for that). So that's exciting. I think it will be a really re-energizing feminist experience. Or at least I'm hoping so, because I could really fucking use one of those sometime soon.

The Phoenix really does drain me. I really want it to realize its full potential, but my hope of that actually happening gets slimmer with every ridiculous in-fight. And nobody is immune, you know? It's not just people I don't like who are tempted to get in their jabs, is folks I really do like as well (and I'm certainly not above a low blow or two myself, to be fair in taking my part of the blame). I don't know why we like to shit on each other, but for some reason we do, and that really disturbs me. Is it just that this is how women in our society are taught to treat each other? Is this what happens in all frustrated progressive circles (I'm thinking of the New Left infighting now, or the gender problems and other problems in the Civil Rights Movement)? Or is it a problem with online communication in general, and none of us would do this in real life? I don't know what to blame it on, but I know it exhausts and depresses me, and some days, like today, I feel better if I just stay away (which is an abdication of responsibility that makes me feel guilty, but whatever, you can't win 'em all).

I'm beginning to worry myself a little bit with the diet/weight loss thing. I don't want to be turning into a calorie counter who sucks the joy out of food, you know? It shouldn't be a point of personal pride to me that I am down 9 pounds, because those are just numbers on a scale, and it shouldn't be a point of pride either that I burned 1000 more calories than I consumed today. I should be focusing on how I feel (which is actually pretty damn good, but I think that is due almost entirely to working out and has very little to do with food restriction), not what my numbers are. But it is harder every day to divorce my feelings from the numbers, and I think more and more about how I can get the numbers lower, what foods I can sneak out (for instance, it's amazing what limiting all beverages to water or tea will do for your calorie count)...I don't know. It seems unhealthy to me even from my internal vantage point, so I can't imagine it looks good to others.

And the bottom line is that yeah, I want to be in better shape and not have back problems like my mom and all that, but basically I'm fucking vain and I don't want to be fat. This all boils down to me not wanting to be fat. And that makes me feel like ass. So what if I am fat? Why should that matter to me? Why is my self-worth so connected to my body? Haven't I learned anything?

Apparently not.

But the chances I am going to quit thinking about it that way seem slim, so I just have to moderate myself as much as I can. Focus as much as possible on excercise and as little as possible on calories. And I have to promise myself that when I reach the goal weight, or when I reach the deadline, whichever comes first, then I am going to STOP counting calories. Because I am so fucking obsessive about entering every mouthful in to the website, and I know that can be a bad behavior.

Really I'm not worried about developing an eating disorder or anything dramatic like that. Rather, I just don't want to get any more fucking vain and self-indulgent.

Funny that I am blogging about not wanting to be so self-indulgent! As if this blog is ANYTHING but self-indulgence...

Yesterday, for the first time, someone noticed that I'd been losing weight. At this point I believe I've lost 12 lbs, which isn't that much. In combination with general body tightening from excercise, though, the difference is significant, my clothes are fitting looser, etc.

Even though the weight loss is intentional and I'm working really hard on it and I was in some ways happy someone noticed, it was a very strange feeling to have someone acknowledge that my body is getting smaller. Even thought I intellectually know that even if I weigh a bit less, I'm getting stronger ever day, I still very weird purposefully making myself smaller. I spent so long as a skinny, skinny kid, I still have it in my head somewhere that I should be gaining weight, not losing it.

At 6'O" and (currently) 175, I'm hardly petite. There is little to no chance of my wasting away. So why am I embarrassed when someone notices I've been losing weight? Why do I feel the need to minimize it, saying, "I've lost a little bit, but it's not a big thing"?

It's a strange connundrum. Realistically, I don't think there is every going to be a "right" size. If I don't lose a lot more weight, I'll continue to feel "too fat." If I do lose a lot more, I'll progress directly from "too fat" to "too thin." There won't be anything in between. Is there for anyone, or is this just another lovely side effect of being a woman in this culture?

If it is, it fucking sucks.

I think I've hit the diet-and-excercise plateau. I've been working on it for three months, and I'm just completely sick and fucking tired of watching what I eat, of keeping track of what I eat and how many calories and what I weigh and what excercise I'm doing. I'm sick to death of exercise. I just want to eat what I want and do what I want. I'm discouraged.

And it's been working--I'm more than halfway to my goal. But I haven't changed weight at all in about two weeks, so that might be part of it. Part of it, though, is my tendancy to want to call it good enough and quit now. And if I did that, I know, I'd be back where I started in just a few months.

I need...inspiration. Why should I keep going? Why am I doing this again?

I just read the comments in Julia's latest Tequila Mockingbird post. They are all about folks on diets. South Beach, Atkins, etc.

I am so fucking sick of dieting I can't even tell you.

I've lost somewhere between 10-13 lbs. It's been four months. I seem to be stuck. I'm not sure I even want to lose more. I want to change shape, and I am working on that. In theory, I have 8-12 lbs. left to lose. I know the only way I'm actually going to get them off is with a DRASTIC calorie cut, something I haven't been willing to do so far (I've been staying at consuming about 500-750 fewer calories per day than I burn). Basically, I need to decide whether to forget about the dieting thing, be fine with this weight, and continue working on shape and scultping, or whether I want to make the health/nutritional sacrifice (not to mention being a raving lunatic because I am not getting enough calories) and try to lose 10 more lbs.

Seems like it would be an obvious choice. After all, I'm at a healthy weight, even by ridiculous BMI standards!

So why am I seriously considering the latter?

Being a well-conditioned American girl, and especially being one who not only does not wear a size 2 but NEVER has (it's true--I skipped straight from kids clothes to an adult 6 over the course of one summer), I hate my body most of the time. Just like I was taught to do. Just like my mom does, just like her mom does, ecetera.

Once in awhile, though, I don't. Just now when I was walking to Starbucks to get my full-fat full-sugar Frappacino (yeah, I know, I suck), I caught sight of myself in a window.

I am SO beautiful.

I have thick, strong legs and a big ole butt. I have wide shoulders and a strong, straight back. Even my increasingly-heavy breasts look strong and capable. I have big-ass feet, but they carry me and give me foundation. I have big-ass hands, but that just means they can hold a lot and I have a firm handshake. Even my hair looks strong.

I have spent most of my life wanting to be small, petite, tiny. Wanting to take up less space and be less capable. And I've just gotten bigger and bigger. I'm bigger now than I've ever been before, probably carrying 20 or so extra pounds around and pushing 6'0". My hips and ass seem to be still growing, as to my breasts. My upper arms look more like my mom's every year, and my mom looks like a blacksmith.

And, today at least, I'm OK with that. Today I am glad there is so much here, I am glad I take up so much space, and I think I take it up well.

Thanks to whomever for that. I really appreciate it.

(Thanks to William, about whom I haven't thought it months, for the title.)

Why do you watch those shows? An answer for my critics.

I'll admit it--I love plastic surgery shows. Not that horrifying fictional one, but the real-life ones they have on the Discovery Health channel and stuff. I am enamored with surgery in general, and I am especially amused/horrified/conflicted about surgery for the sake of vanity. Plus the people crack my shit up. So I was mildly excited to see advertisements for the upcoming Miami Slice. Trailing five Miami plastic surgeons through their professional and personal lives for six episodes? What could be a guiltier pleasure?

Well, it is unmitigated awful. I really, really want to believe it's fiction, because the idea that these are real people is simply too disturbing for words. Not one of the plastic surgeons (all men, by the way) seems to have any identifiably good characteristics (except that one of them has a super-cute dog). Every single woman on the show, including one doc's 76 year-old mom, has fake boobs and an over-tightened face. The show is very big into Miami!. All the stars play in Miami!. If you live in Miami!, you have to have a tight face and big fake breasts (and lipo'd ass and an eye tuck and...). Everyone wears a bikini and listens to Latin music in Miami!. And on and on. It goes beyond enough to make you barf and moves right into enough to make you writhe on the ground in spasms of laughter and pain and humiliation at sharing a species with these people.

So why do I keep watching it? Well, for one thing they show some surgery, although it's not in as much detail as the much better programs on Discovery Health (to be fair, they did have an extensive liposuction scene last night). But it's something beyond that, something...sadistic? I find it oddly comforting that by the standards of these folks, I am not only obese, I am also too old, my nose is too long, my chin is too strong, etc. The fact that they have invented a standard for "beauty" that can be met only through invasive surgical means makes me feel all the more satiated about being middle-of-the-road, kinda-cute, a bit chunky, and 100% real. The more plastic breasts and plastic asses and ab implants and Botoxed faces I see waltz across my screen, the more in love I am with my cellulite, my glasses, my breasts that are going to sag, my unplucked eyebrows and belly roll. I don't know if that's a normal reaction, but it's the reaction I have. And that's why I watch these shows--they make me feel like shit about humanity, sometimes, but they also make me feel beautiful. And because I know their business is the opposite, I feel like I'm pulling one over on them.

None of this is to say that my reasons are unobjectionable. I mean, I've written many a rant against reality TV chastising people for this same thing--using the misfortunes of others to make themselves feel better/smarter/sexier/fill-in-your-needed-attribute-here. And I know that's exactly what I am doing. It's a habit I'd really prefer not to have. But at the same time, I feel like I am seeing something here that other people aren't. Watching a rhinoplasty performed makes me really, really happy with my nose. And that's a good thing, right?

All those plastic people
Got their plastic surgery
But we got a big, big beautiful
And we got it for free
-Ani, "Imperfectly"

I come from a long line of "full-figured" women. As they themselves would say it, fat women. Not fat just because they love to eat (although they do, and they eat with a voracity and lust for life that I admire and aspire to), but fat because they were meant to be that way. Fat because thousands of years of Dutch peasant stock built them sturdy; fat because they have worked for generations in fields and on concrete diner floors; fat because there is nothing waifish about their personalities; fat because when you grow up poor, you never, ever leave food on your plate. Mostly, though, they are fat because their mothers were fat, their grandmothers were fat, their aunts and cousins were fat, and fat is their way of life.

The language of being fat has surrounded me all my life. You are "built like a brick shithouse," you have "arms like a blacksmith," or "your ass is wider than an ax handle." Only typing those words now do I see them as insults, which in the society where I live, they most certainly are. And yet at home it was a family reunion contest between my grandmother and her sisters to see whose ass really was as wide as an ax handle, and I've never felt anything but pride at the sight of my mom's "blacksmith arms."

Our society tries to make us believe that fat should be associated with laziness, sloth, indolence. Growing up, though, fat women were associated with competancy. My mother and aunts are the most competent women I've ever known. They can and do take care of themselves, and take care of their kids, just the way I imagine my grandmother took care of (and still takes care of) them. Being fat doesn't just mean they can lift heavy things, move you if you are in their way, slap the shit out of you if you mouth off, it also means that they have the best laps in the world, that no matter how bad things are, there is always something soft about them, something that means home.

It is clear to me, at 25, that it would not be at all difficult to follow in my mother's footsteps where body weight is concerned. It's still kind of a shock, because I was a really skinny (and embarrassed about being skinny) kid. And it has taken me years to realize that yes, I do have "child bearing hips," and they aren't going to go away no matter how many times I say I don't want children. But now that I am ten years away from skinny, skinny is the biggest compliment I could get. I can't capture the sense of competency and female completeness I see in my mother and her sisters, no matter how high the number on my scale gets. When I see it in myself, being big isn't about being competent and able to take care of myself, and being soft isn't about being rounded and feminine and feeling like home. I am horrified by my own blacksmith arms, and I would never in a million years lean over and let someone measure my ass against an ax handle, much less do it laughingly year after year. For me, coming from this long line of beautiful, strong, fat women is a curse. I resent them because their genes and their inherited eating habits have cursed me to a life of sucking in, counting calories, being ashamed to shop in a plus-sized store.

So what has changed between them and me? It would be easy to blame living in the city, or blame the generation gap, but that's not it. The simple truth is that I got vain and greedy. I thought I could have my size 10 body and still have their competence, their joy, their love. And now I have none of it. I'm fat, but I'm not part of their tradition. My arms may look just like my mom's, but she wears her's without a thought, as part of who she is, while I try to hide mine. I don't revel in the things my body can do, and I certainly don't use it to make my living. I eat with shame, guilt, petulance, but never gusto. And I wonder, since I'm never going to be skinny, if I can learn to be fat like them?

I don't know that this is really a meme, but I hope folks treat it like one and take it back to their blogs and LJs. There has been a lot of bad body image going around in the circles in which I travel, and a lot of it has been coming from me, and it sucks. So here are some things about my body that are good:

Things I Like About My Body

1. I have large, strong, capable, athletic-looking arms and legs.
2. I have great hair--thick but still soft.
3. I have really good skin.
   
4. My breasts are nicely shaped and firm and nearly exactly the same size.
5. I have a movie-star quality back.
6. My ears are really cute.
7. Because I am so tall, I can usually see really well at concerts.
8. I can easily balance or carry things on my hip.
9. I'm tall enough to carry off wearing a dress over pants without looking like I'm 5.
10. I have tattoos and piercings that I picked out and feel comfortable and natural to me.
    

So last night I'm on the Stair Stepper, listening to an audiobook I just downloaded. It's Confessions Of A Reformed Dieter: How I Dropped Eight Dress Sizes and Took My Life Back (perfect for the Stair Stepper, don't you think?). So I am listening and huffing and puffing along, and then she says it. Something that has been in the back of my mind since Tracey Gold was on the cover of People in 1992. Something that other people have thought and said as well, but never so clearly, at least not within my hearing.

Sad story articles about anorexic celebrities are not meant to be warnings, or just tear-jerkers. They are instruction manuals. The pictures they print of the "deathly skinny" celebrity aren't for shock value, they are something to aspire to.

So I wanted to illustrate what I was saying in that post about anorexia.

Here are some pictures of people the media has called anorexic/done "anorexic how-to" stories about:

Mary-Kate Olsen

Tracey Gold

Whitney Houston

Now, here are some women the media thinks look great:

Sarah Jessica Parker

Various soap opera stars (Carly from General Hospital and Bianca from All My Children. Please don't ask why I know that.)

Tell me, how big a difference do YOU see?

What's worse? Renee Zellwegger (whom, as I have said before, I really like).

She sometimes looks like this:

And sometimes looks like this:

Now, which one of those is supposed to be the healthy weight?

Note: This is catharsis. It's how I feel. If you don't like it, if you don't want to read it, if it offends you,if you have body issues of your own that it exaserbates, just stop. Please.

I hate my body. I hate these breasts. Where the fuck did I get these breasts? They don't look like my breasts. My breasts are small. I hate the flaps of fat swinging under my arms like a fucking whattle. I hate my belly rolls. I hate the cellulite on the outsides of my thighs and the stretch marks on the insides of them. I hate hate hate my ass. I hate not being able to fit into any cute clothes, or even any of the clothes I wore last summer. I hate being "plus sized." I hate shopping at Lane Bryant. It doesn't make me feel like a "Real Woman (TM)," it makes me feel like a fucking manitee. I hate people saying, "you're just tall." 30 pounds ago I was just tall.

The bottom line is that I hate being fat. I hate everything about it. On the more acceptable side, I hate feeling like I am carrying extra weight, I hate the extra stress on my knees. I hate having my archless feet swollen at the end of the day. I hate it that I can see my vericose veins getting worse. On the less acceptable side, I hate seeing someone I haven't seen in a long time and wondering if they'll notice the extra 30 lbs I've put on. I hate walking in front of people and wondering if they are marvelling at the size of my ass. I hate knowing that it swings when I walk. I hate it that I had a massage this evening and I never relaxed, as I was spending the whole time wondering if I was going to be able to keep my fat self on the little table, wondering if the petite woman massaging me was hurting her hands trying to get around my hips. I hate feeling like I have failed. I hate being fat.

And what I hate almost as much as being fat itself is this: I hate that I care. I hate that I can't embrace my size like a good feminist. I hate that I can't concentrate soley on feeling better, without wondering what exercises I need to do to get into a size 12. I hate that I weigh myself even more than I hate the number I see when I do it. I hate myself when I eat poorly and don't exercise, but I hate myself almost as much when I do, because I know it's for the "wrong" reasons. I really hate wondering if my problem is really with my body, or if it's a symptom of something else, something even less under my control. I hate being fat, and I hate what hating being fat says about me.

There are few things more tiresome than listening to someone else complain about her weight. I hate that I have become one of the people who does that. I hate the very idea that my self-loathing translates into loathing towards other fat women, but I also hate it when I catch myself thinking that it's OK for other people to be fat, just not me.

I hate that my big ass symbolizes my compliance in a culture of greed and excess. I hate that I am an overweight American. I hate that my ass is oversized because I not only like McDonalds french fries, I'll actually put aside my politics and order them. I hate that there are people starving in the world and I can't keep my intake below 3,000 calories most days. You could feed seven starving children off my thighs alone. I hate that I use more than I need and take more than is my fair share. And I hate that it shows in my body.

I hate exercise. I hate huffing and puffing, red-faced and miserable. I hate it that it is only being fat that can even get me to attempt cardiovascular fitness. I hate it that I won't do it for my heart, or my lungs, but I'll do it for the guys who used to whistle at me on the street but don't anymore. I hate that I hate exercise. I'm supposed to like it. It's supposed to make me feel good.

At this point, not much feels good. Being fat is nearly as bad as caring, and caring is nearly as bad as being fat.

Gee, didn't exactly leave the blog in good spirits, did I?

Things are better, I think, than they were upon my last post. There are worse things to be than 20-30 lbs overweight. Lots of worse things. So...I've started keeping a food journal for a bit, just to get a sense of what I am eating, and my main focus is on exercise. Or was on exercise. I tore my pectoral muscle, so all exercise is suspended until I can breathe without Vicodin.

Mainly, I've just re-entered the zone in which I am tired of thinking about my weight. There is too much else going on to focus on it. We're closing on the house in just over a week. There is paint to pick out, there are boxes to pack. There is work drama that never ends, which may or may not turn out good for me. It is really and truly spring here, with green trees and blue sky and tank top and flip flop weather. Who wants to waste all that fixating on her fat ass?

We had a truly fantastic experience last weekend. The dog rescue we work with had a picnic, and three of our former puppies and their families came! I say former puppies because at not-quite-seven-months, they are HUGE! All about 60 lbs. And they are obviously all great dogs, and dogs that are integral parts of the families who adopted them. I don't think I've ever felt quite so proud as I did watching them play, watching their families mingle and thinking that yes, I made this happen. It is because of me that these dogs are alive and happy and healthy, and because of me that these people have these dogs to enrich their lives. How could I not be proud of that?

Which do you hate more, dieting or budgeting (or, if the d-word turns you off, replace that with "having responsible eating habits and having responsible spending habits," if you prefer)? Aren't they really pretty much the same thing? I am very good at planning for both of them (setting up spreadsheets, figuring out realistic goals) and very bad at following through with either one. Which explains quite a bit about my station in life, actually (i.e. why I am 30 lbs overweight and have way, way less money saved than I should have). Both of them are things that make you feel virtuous if you actually do them and guilty when you don't. Both of them are responses to over-indulging in activities that you can't logically just quit cold turkey. Both of them are about moderation, which has to be one of my least favorite words. I read magazine articles and books and websites about how to do both of them better ravenously, and yet don't do either in any real way. They even have similar languages ("allowances," "splurges").

Bottom line is that both of them are things I really need to be doing and I'm just not. No matter how many programs I join (Self's get fix program, at least three Fitday accounts, the new food pyramid thing, you name it) or how many spreadsheets I set up (one in Money, one in Quicken, at least 10 in Excel), I just don't follow through. I think about seeking a dietician, or a financial planner, but know that ultimately either would be wasteful, because not knowing what to do isn't my problem--doing it is. I know I should write down every penny I spend, put myself on a cash-only economy with a weekly allowance, cut up my credit cards, drink more water, eat five servings of vegetables a day, cut out sugar and refined carbs, exercise 5 times a week...but knowing isn't doing. And since I haven't yet reasonably mastered either, the chances of doing both seem especially slim.

So you tell me--which is worse, dieting or budgeting?

203. 203. 203. 203. 203. 203.

That's what I saw on the scale this morning, and that is what is echoing through my head. 203 pounds.

Folks, that is way the fuck more than I should weigh, and it's come on way the fuck faster than it ought to have.

I'm paralyzed with it. I have no fucking idea how I am going to fight it. Taking off ten pounds is one thing, but I need to take off thirty to be at a reasonable weight, and I can't imagine that I am going to be able to take them off anywhere near as quickly as I put them on. If at all. This may just the beginning.

I have no will power. I know what I need to do (eat better and exercise--it's not rocket science), but I feel like I'm trying to move through sludge, like my feet are stuck to the bottom, and I'm going nowhere but towards fatter. Fat, fatter, fattest.

Two-fucking-oh-three.

I wrote my first anti-uniform piece when I was 16. I was a member of a local newspaper's teen team, and I fought to be assigned the anti-uniform stance in a point-counterpoint article (front page of the section!). As a picture to accompany the article, the girl who wrote the pro-uniform side was given a small budget and told to go to Target or Wal-Mart or wherever and buy clothes she would consider an appropriate uniform for high schools. I was told to come in my own clothes, whatever I thought best reflected my typical style. Then they took our pictures back-to-back and printed our pieces. She came in navy pants with an elastic waist, a plain white polo shirt, and plain dark shoes. I came in jeans I inherited from my stepfather, a hand-tooled leather belt from the 70s (with someone else's name on the back of it), a striped v-neck, and Birkenstocks. We were equally comfortable and able to move around. We were equally "covered up." We both felt, I assume, that what we were wearing said something about ourselves as individuals.

More than ten years later, I have no idea what my "opponent" (whose name I've forgotten) thinks about dress codes and uniforms. As for me, though, my stance hasn't changed much. Now, as then, uniforms make my skin crawl, and I abhor dress codes. It's not so much about the mystical ability to "express myself" through my clothes as it is about control. The way I see it, dressing is an extension of body autonomy, and I don't want someone else telling me what parts of my body need to be covered, by what, etc. It irritates me in employment situations (which are, mostly, voluntary) and it enrages me in schools (which are, mostly, not).

I spent much of high school pressing the dress code issue. My high school did not have a particularly stringent code, but certain things (midriff tops, shorts or skirts that were too short, spaghetti strap tanks, hats, etc.) were not allowed. I wore all of them at one time or another. It wasn't about being sexxxxeeee, or about showing off my body. It was about testing boundaries. It was about exercising my own autonomy, and seeing how far I could push.

Interestingly, when I moved to college, where there was no dress code (literally none, we had naked students at Reed), I started caring a lot less about my clothes. I had my own uniform, of a sort--baggy cargo pants or BDUs, a t-shirt, a hoodie. I did a few wild things with my hair, pierced my navel (not allowed in high school), got my first tattoo (also not allowed), but basically, I kept myself covered up and didn't think much about it. As an adult, working in professional environments, I wear clothing that is, by and large, appropriate. I do wear sleeveless shirts and dresses, which some people find inappropriate (particularly because it shoes my upper arm tattoo), but none of my employers have had any problem with this, so I guess it's fine. Having the freedom to dress the way I see fit hasn't turned me into some kind of monster. If anything, it's let to me chilling out about the whole situation.

Dress codes and uniforms, in most cases, are about control. They generally come about through dictates rather than community processes, coming down from a superior as rules for inferiors. This is the case in schools, in places of employment, and in prisons. I object to this kind of control. I buck against this kind of control, and I think a lot of people do. And moreover, I think we should, particularly women. Because in truth, there's not much difference between someone with power over you telling you to cover it up and telling you to take it off. Either way, someone who is not you is exercising control over your body decisions, and I think it's right to fight that.

My basic premises are as follows:

1. People should be left to dress as they see appropriate, with the exception of dress codes needed for safety reasons and uniforms needed for identification purposes (i.e. police officers, fire fighters, etc.);
2. If left to their own devices, people will generally dress in a way that is deemed "appropriate" for whatever their position/station is;
3. If left to their own devices and not dressing "appropriately," people generally aren't hurting anyone or anything anyway.

I honestly don't understand what is so hard about that. It seems to me that uniforms and dress codes are just unnecessary rules in nearly all cases, and I don't see any point to restricting people unnecessarily. The so-called benefits of dress codes seem mostly invented to me (safer? less distracting? less classist? really? are you sure?), and the drawbacks are much larger than people realize.

1500 calories a day, that is.

It's true, I'm dieting again. Yes, I am aware of the reams of research suggesting that "diets don't work" and "you have to make lifelong changes" and so on. And I hear that, I really do. I hope to get to lifelong changes in my eating habits and a commitment to exercise some day. That's a definite goal.

But the more immediate goal is to get rid of the extra 30 lbs I'm carrying as quickly as possible. My feet hurt. My knees hurt. My back hurts. And I've come to believe that my weight is inextricably linked to these problems. I want it to stop. I want my clothes to fit. I want to feel less slobby. More than anything, though, I want to be in less pain. And in order to do that, I need to lose weight. And to lose weight, quite simply, I need to take in fewer calories than I expend.

Because that's the thing. All the types of diets and "healthy eating" plans in the world don't change the fact that if you don't take in fewer calories than you burn, you don't lose weight. You may convert fat to muscle, you may change your shape, etc., but your overall body weight is not going to go down without a calorie deficit. And what I need, right now, is for my weight to go down. It's that simple. Once I get that going, I'll worry about building up the muscles.

I'm going back to the doctor to have my feet looked at again next week, but I am fairly sure I'm going to get the same answer I got last time--they are flat and worn out from carrying too much weight. I have a big body. Even at a healthy weight, it's heavy. At my present weight, it's too heavy for my feet and my joints, particularly given weak muscles in my legs and core. I have to fix that or I'm not going to feel any better.

Losing weight is hard. It depresses me to have to do it, and to have to it this way, counting up everything I eat and being hungry and unsatisifed. But I really don't see another option at this point.

As a follow up to the Dove piece I posted a few days ago (and is making its way around the Internet in a million other forums as well), I have to share something Nyarly brought to my attention. If you go here, then click on "portfolio" and "before/after," you can see celebrity photographs pre and post-digital enhancement.

One example, a picture of Mariah Carey, is shown below. Others are similarly revealing.

I wasn't planning to write up a list of New Year's resolutions this year, but I was just listening to some podcast that was talking about how much more successful people are in meeting their goals if they (1) write those goals down and (2) share those goals with others, so I figured I'd better.

Basically, I want to get in control of heath and finances this year. Those are my broad goals. But the program also said that the more specific your goals are, the better suited you are to obtain them. So, more specifically:

Financial goals:

1. In 2007, I will completely pay down my credit card debt. I will not take on any new credit card debt.
2. In 2007, I will make regular payments to my student loan.
3. In 2007, after my credit cards are paid, I will put the same amount per month into savings as I was putting into paying them.

Health goals:

1. Make a new health-related goal every two weeks and work on that goal, trying to keep up with previous goals as well. (Example: for the first two weeks of the year, I am working on giving up soda.)
2. Walk the dogs. Take them to the park. Enjoy the fact that I live somewhere with really freaking good weather.

So that's it. Those are my goals. Consider them written out and shared.

Once again, I am finding myself without reasonable pants.

See, I've gained a lot of weight. Which is fine, whatever, I'm not going to stress about it anymore than I have to. But now nothing fits. Not so long ago, I bought some new pants, in a size 16, at a store where sizes run large. And they fit. Until I wear them for two hours--then they're too big. However, my old pants, which are mostly size 16 from smaller sizing stores, are too tight. And it's not just the ass anymore--the waists are improbably tight now too. Which not only looks bad, but is also quite uncomfortable.

So I need new pants. Pants that fit both in the morning and in the evening. Inexpensive pants. Because it is too cold to wear skirts. And I don't know where to begin. I know of a few brands that fit sometimes, but only some styles fit, and only if they are long. Except the one kind, for which the long drags on the ground unless I wear heels. Why can't shit just fit?

Run, don't walk, over to read Mimi Smartypants' entry for yesterday.

Quoth Mimi:

To sum it all up: I am not going to switch doctors. I am not going to lose ten pounds. I am going to go to the gym, run on the treadmill (Dinosaur Jr, Daydream Nation, and some embarrassing downloaded cock-rock songs [shhhh]), lift weights (over-loud Christina Aguilera mixes), come home, and drink Old Style (Wu-Tang, Schubert's Death and the Maiden quartet, my daughter's monologues) just like I always do. I am going to continue to wish I were a brain in a jar, but I am going to try and appreciate my body for its alcohol-processing, fine-cheese-digesting, LT-pleasuring capabilities. And if the topic comes up next year, I am going to politely tell my doctor to eat a bag of dicks. Is there a polite way to do that? I will find one.

I am not going to bore you with the various and sundry ways in which I sucked this weekend, nor with beating myself up about it. I shopped, I didn't go to church, Mark and I fought, it was bad. However, it is back to being not bad now, and so forward we will go.

On a happy note, both Oliver and Edie are now on trial adoptions with their new families, who seem in both cases to be well-suited for them and happy to have them. This is great for them, and good for us, as well, as we need a little bit of less stressful non-fostering down time to get our collective shit together.

Suzanne has a post at BlogHer challenging women to post photos of themselves in their swimsuits, to remind all of us that we're the real women with the real bodies out here, and that's OK--more than OK, actually, fabulous. She posted hers and there are/will be others in the comments. I am 100% for it and wanted to share. Since the most recent one of myself I can find is from 1997, I'll be attempting to do one of me tonight, digital camera battery willing.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with the skin we live in, y'all.

Sadly, I can't find the swimsuit photo of myself and Melinda I wanted to post, nor did I manage to get a new photo taken this weekend, so this old one will have to do. I don't look exactly like this anymore, but it's still fairly recognizable as me (check out those big ass feet!). Anyway, heres to The Swimsuit Brigade for Honest Photos!

I've been thinking about my body a lot lately.

This is not exactly news, as far as being a woman in Western society goes. We think about our bodies a lot. In fact, we're more or less obsessed with them, as a rule. I know I am and have been in the past. But lately, I am really trying to think about mine in a different way.

With me, it usually starts with clothes. My body has a tendency to fluctuate quite a bit in size and shape, so the clothes that fit me last fall don't necessarily fit me right now. In fact, I've realized during this past couple of weeks that I have basically no pants that I don't have to hike up every five minutes. Also, my bras are too small around and too big in the cups. So off to Ross I go.

I get sick of doing this. It's wasteful, buying new clothes every season because last year's models don't fit now, and I am large enough that I have a real problem finding thrifted clothes in my sizes. The shopping is also frustrating, as I hover between plus-sized and not, and have a generally hard-to-fit body. For every pair of pants that makes a reasonable approximation of my waist-to-hip ratio, I'll try on at least a dozen that don't. Due to these frustrations, I can get kind of twitchy about the whole subject.

What I am trying to internalize, though, is that clothes not made to fit me is their problem, not mine. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my body. The path it travels between a size 14 and a size 18 is not a negative reflection on my character. My breasts are not less attractive at a 38B than they were at a 36C. And I have an absolute right to buy myself new things when the old ones don't fit--nothing makes me feel worse faster than facing getting dressed in the morning when everything in the closet is the wrong size. While it is a hindrance financially to have to buy new clothes every season in order to have things fit properly, doing so not a reflection on my character or even on my physical attractiveness. It is also not a reflection on something bad I'm doing--I don't yo-yo diet. I don't binge eat, at least not recently. My current slightly-smaller physique is due mostly to the bout of food poisoning that left me down nearly 20 lbs in four days a month or so ago, but I've made no particular effort to keep that weight off, or to put it back on. I try to eat a reasonable diet and eat when I am hungry, what I'm hungry for. I'm not physically active enough, but at this point in my life, given other health and lifestyle issues I am working on, I can accept that. I'm doing just fine.

I've been watching with great interest a Flickr project called Pictures of You. In it, women post photographs of themselves at different times in the history of their bodies and write notes on them explaining what was going on, how they felt about their bodies at the time, and how they feel about looking at the photos now. I submitted some pictures of my own, but as yet they haven't been added (the group may be closed, I'm not sure). Going through the photos and thinking about what to say about them was extremely cathartic, though, as was the prospect of sharing my thoughts, so I thought I'd do my own little exhibition here. Step right up for a brief photo history of Grace's body:

This picture was taken in the early summer of 1994. I was 14. If memory serves, I was about 5'10" and weighed about 145 lbs. I wear a size 8 or 10. My breasts and hips hadn't developed yet and looking back at this picture, I had amazing legs. At the time, I had just started being truly concerned about my body, but weight wasn't an issue--I spent all my mortification on how tall I was and how I didn't have any chest to speak of. Looking at the picture, though, I see comfort, confidence, joy.

This picture is also at the beach, almost exactly three years later. I'm 17 and just about to leave home and high school. I've gone up another 1-2 inches and gained 15-20 lbs. I wear a size 12. By this point, I've begun to be concerned about my weight on and off, particularly the inner thighs I am blissfully showing in this shot. Looking back, I think I look fantastic, of course. I still have almost no chest, and it still bothers me.

This picture is at the end of 1997, only about eight months after the previous picture. You can't tell, but I'm actually 10-15 lbs lighter here than I was before, due to a stressful first semester at college (my freshman 15 went the other way). I'm still generally in a size 12. However, I have started to really obsess about my body at this point, in part due to being larger than my new boyfriend (also pictured). Oddly, the first thing I notice about this picture now is how incredibly fat my arm looks. I think it's just a weird angle or something, because I know it wasn't that big, but I can't help but think it looks terrible. Guess I still have a long way to go.

This incredibly silly picture, taken in the summer of 1998, represents probably the best shape I've ever been in as an adult. It is at the end of the summer when I got my lifeguard training and certification. I worked at a public pool and swam a lot (which also explains the hair and the tan). I'm at my full height by this point (about 6'1" but I am still calling it 5'11.5") and probably weigh about 160 lbs here, still in a 12. I honestly don't remember if I knew then how great I looked, but I sure know now.

This picture was taken the following summer, 1999. I'm 19 here. I've just been very very sick and my weight is way down--probably back down to 145 or close to it. I'm swimming in my size 12 clothes and have no money to buy anything else. My hips and breasts have started to actually come out by now, and my body just seems weird to me. Looking back on the picture, all I can think of is how much I love that haircut.

This is the following summer, 2000. I am 20. I am back up to my regular (at that time) weight, probably 165-170. I've moved to a size 14 in most clothes. I've developed a love/hate relationship with what I now think of as my enormous ass, and I wear baggy pants all the time. I still feel pretty good about my body, though, as shown in my typically short shirts and lack of sleeves. Looking back, it is hard for me not to think of this as my best natural body.

This picture was taken in September of 2002. I'd just turned 22. My post-college weight gain has started, so I'm probably about 180 here. My breasts have blessedly grown and with the help of a push up bra I can actually fill out the front of that dress. I remember being concerned about how I was sitting when we took these pictures, as I wanted to be shorter than Mark in them (he's about 5'8"-5'9") and not have my legs squished up so they looked fatter. I guess it's safe to say I now officially have weight concerns. It bothers me that I weigh more than Mark, even though I know I'm much taller and built heavier. I'm wearing a size 14 and periodically try to get back into a 12 through crash dieting.

This photo is, I believe, from the spring of 2005. I'm 25. I'm at around 200 lbs, struggling to stay in 14s and branching out to 16s much of the time, and really, furiously unhappy with my weight. When I saw this picture the first time, I mostly saw fat arms and belly rolls. With more retrospect, though, I don't think I look bad at all, and I remember the day (The Mighty Texas Dog Walk) as being a great time.

This is last Halloween, almost a year ago. I am probably at about 215 here. I'm wearing men's jeans with a 38 waist, and I've moved into a lot of size 18 clothes. I didn't show many people this picture when it was taken, because I thought it made me look fat (and honestly, it does). However, I have to end with it for the sake of symbolism now. I am a strong, beautiful, competent woman, no matter what I weigh or what size my pants are, and that is what this costume was supposed to be about. Comically, it's also an illustration of how wearing clothes that are actually too big for you does nothing to make you look smaller.

Today, October 3, 2007, I am 28. I am still about 6'1" and I weigh somewhere between 205-215, I think. I have on brand new jeans, which fit me perfectly and make me feel good, and they are a size 16. Whether I remain in this size, or go up, or go down, it's fine. That's not what that is about. This is about realizing that I look good in ALL of these pictures, and that the changes in my body are fine.

After writing yesterday's post, I was thinking some more about body image and particularly weight issues. Though I am by absolutely no means an expert on this, I think I've actually done fairly well, particularly recently, at coming to terms with the body I have and accepting and loving it as it is. Given that I don't tend to be the mentally healthiest person in the world in general, I was wondering why that is, and here is what I came up with:

Grace's Simple One-Step Plan to Loving Your Body, No Matter the Size

1. Get some clothes that fit.

Like I said before, nothing destroys my body image for the day, or week, or month like spending precious morning minutes fighting with a closet full of ill-fitting clothes. It's just the most defeating thing in the world. So I think the #1 way, for me, at least, to accept my body is to get the clothes that don't fit the hell out of my closet. This means doing a thorough purge and not being sentimental. Just because you love and adore a given item of clothing doesn't mean it still fits you, and having to see it not fit you every day is going to be a lot worse than getting rid of it. So the first thing to do is get rid of every single piece of clothing in your closet that doesn't fit. And if something doesn't feel right to you, it doesn't fit, regardless of what anybody says about how it looks.

Whether or not to actually remove these clothes from your possession completely really depends. I don't, usually, because my size does fluctuate too much. I put them in Rubbermaid bins, labeled with what they are, and slide them under the bed. But I think that will only work if you can really forget they are there. The whole point here is to remove these non-fitting clothes from your mind completely and start thinking of your body as something new, rather than something that is somehow failing to fit into stuff you already have.

Oh, and this goes for clothes that are too small AND those that are too big. While too small things may make me feel fat, too large things make me feel sloppy and frumpy, and honestly it's not much better.

Of course, after you get rid of everything that doesn't fit, you are probably going to need some new things. This part is tricky, because (especially if you are like me) buying a whole new wardrobe every time you change sizes is very expensive. One recommendation I have, of course, is thrift, thrift, thrift. If you are of anything approaching an average build (i.e. somewhere between a size 2 and a size 16, probably, and not extremely short or tall) and you live in a somewhat large city, this should be possible (though it may not, I hear some cities really do have terrible thrift stores). Thrifting has always been my solution to restocking my closet. At my present size, and at my height in general, some things are hard for me to thrift for (pants in particular), but I do still try.

If thrifting hasn't worked out, or if you just need to fill in some holes for things you couldn't find while thrifting, then my next step is discount stores. I like Ross in particular, but Marshall's or T.J. Maxx might be better where you live. Anywhere you can get slightly higher quality things for reduced prices. Personally, I generally stay away from clothes from really low-end stores (Wal-Mart, clearly, but also K-Mart, Rave, etc.) because they fall apart and shrink/warp, and then I'm faced with having to do the exact same thing over again.

Finally, take a look at sales. N.Y. and Company has AMAZING sales (I just got two pairs of jeans and two silk short-sleeved wrap sweaters there for about $50). Their clothes are not exactly high-end, but will always get me through at least one season, and given my constantly changing sizes, that's usually all I need. They also tend to carry pants that fit me well, which is a real blessing at my height and with my waist-to-hip ratio.

The idea here is not to buy a whole passel of new stuff and get yourself into serious debt, especially if you are a size-fluctuator like me. The idea is to buy a few new things that actually fit and make you feel good when you wear them, and to wear them. Then, when/if they stop fitting and making you feel good, repeat the process.

I know this isn't the most conservative thing to recommend, in terms of finances, the use of resources, etc. And I feel bad about that. But in truth, it is worth making compromises in other areas for me to go through my days feeling good about the body I have right now, and this is the best way I've found to do it.

So that post of SJ's I linked to a few days ago? Turns out that is part of a larger project, via BlogHer, started by Suzanne Reisman two weeks ago. It's a hard thing to ask a woman to do, I think, writing a letter to her body. But 89 women have done it so far, according to the blog roll from that post, so I think I can suck it up and give it a try.

Dear Body,

I would really like to write you the kind of letter I see other women writing to their bodies, full of insight and humor, apologies for past abuses and forgiveness. But I am not there yet. Body, I am still angry at you.

I have all of these expectations, and you persistently refuse to fulfill them. I expect to be able to eat what I want, not exercise, and have you stay the same size, but you don't. I expect that you'll allow me to breathe easily through all 12 months of the year, but you don't. I expect to be able to come to work and function properly every day, but as often as not you get sick and I have to pay the price. I'm sick of it. I want you to do what I tell you to do! I'm the boss here, not you!

Most of what you do to me I could forgive you for, or find a way to blame on myself. The weight gain, the worsening skin, even the constant demands for sleep and inability to tolerate red wine appropriately. But what is absolutely your fault and not mine, and unforgivable, is that you are allergic to everything. Every tree, every plant, every mold, every animal, every dust spore. Of all of the ways in which you have let me down, this is the most intolerable. You demand ever increasing pills, sprays, and tricks just to allow me to go on moving through my days. It is expensive, it is inconvenient, and it is completely and totally unfair.

I know you think I should be thanking you for the positive things you do for me--for being able to walk around, to see and smell and hear and touch, but I'm just not in the mood. You're doing a sub-par job and I am sick of it. If I had any other candidates for your position, I would fire you.

Irritatedly yours,

Grace

I am coming up on my five year blog anniversary (August 16, if you're keeping track--my not-illustrious first post is here). I started the blog right after we moved to Texas. And one of the things I've been blogging about pretty regularly since the inception is my weight, and my discomfort with it. Now that I'm in a place where I am seriously working on my weight (down 5 lbs in my first two weeks of Weight Watchers), I thought it might be interesting to look back on my history of weight blogging.

The first mention I find of my own weight here is on December 8, 2003. In this post, I freak out after learning that I weigh 187 lbs:

I need to face facts. I'm overweight. First it was "no worries until I'm over 160," then "no worries until I'm over a size 12," then "no worries until my clothes don't fit." Well, all those things have happened. I'm well over 160, I'm a size 14 on a good day, and my clothes don't fit. I've gained well over 30 lbs. since high school, and probably 20 since I graduated from college. Worse yet, I've gained another 10 at least