What a way to make a living

I think it’s hysterically funny that at annual appraisal time every year, I expect to get yelled at for something. My stomach does flip-flops and my mind races to devise reasonable excuses for anything bad I might have done as I anticipate the hour of my dreaded appraisal! I practice my lines: “It wasn’t my fault!” “The dog ate my homework!” “But, officer, I was only going one way!”.

I don’t know why I get so nervous because Bossman never yells at me. He may do many things: he makes bad policy, enforces it (then re-enforces it), and rewards people that don’t deserve it, but he never takes you in his office to reprimand you (he finds passive aggressive ways to do it instead). I never get thumped for anything. I come in late, I waste time on the computer, I take long lunches, and I take too much time off—but as far as he’s concerned, everything’s fine and I’m doing a great job. Well done, sign on the bottom line please.

Sounds like heaven, right? That’s what everybody thinks, and for most people it would be.

Think about it: it doesn’t matter whether you do a good job or a bad job. Show up, breathe, do as your told, and you get paid. Any normal person would think this is a great gig. So what if you have to suck up your pride? So what if you have to watch everything you’ve worked for get tossed under the bus? So what if complete ninnies take over the place or get promoted over you? You get your paycheck, you’ve got bennies, what’s your problem?

I’ve said for a long time that, presuming it’s true that we create our own experiences, then we also create our own despair. The grief over my breakup with HWSNBN, for instance, was largely driven by the fact that I cared about him so much. If I could just stop caring, I thought, it would stop hurting. To quote a better individual than myself, the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.

I feel very much the same about my job. I care about what I do very much. I truly believe that my contribution to the visual style and communication of Initech determines the ultimate success of the organization. I am responsible. I do a bad job and it reflects badly on them. I do a good job, and it effects the greater good, so to speak. Most of the people I work with do not think this way at all. They think that all they do is “pretty things up” and that’s just fine. They are simply happy to be employed, unfazed by the massive ignorance they’re surrounded by. Mind you, they’re not terribly talented nor particularly driven individuals—none of them would ever survive a high-pressure ad agency situation (if I owned my own agency, I don’t think I’d hire any of them)—they have other priorities. They have families, hobbies, other things that distract them from worrying about whether or not their jobs are fulfilling. In other words, they don’t care. Things fall down around them at their jobs, and they go home at the end of the day absolutely unfettered.

There is great freedom in not giving a shit.

Problem is, I’m the kind of person that needs challenge. I was one of those kids in school who asked for more homework or who wrote a 12-page essay when the teacher asked for three. I’m an overachiever, and in the absence of obstacles, I make them.

This would certainly explain my problems in relationships or in any other aspect of my life. I never seem happy just sailing along waiting for life to toss me a problem. I make them for myself. Then when life does eventually toss me a toughie, I’m too busy to handle it.

I always say that one of these days, I’ll get all caught up with my problems—I’ll pay the bills, get the house clean, get everything fixed, and then I can relax.

Yeah, right before I start making problems for myself again!

Chirp! Chirp!

This is one of those days when I have 1001 topics zipping though my head, yet when I go to write about something, all I hear is crickets.

In the spirit of that, I’ll answer 2LazyDogs’ multiquestion meme. And yes, it’s all about Me! Me!

• Over 21? Duh.
  
• Danced in front of your mirror naked? I’m scarred for life from the experience.
  
• Ever told a lie? Only when I’m not telling the truth.
  
• Been arrested? No, but there’s still time.
  
• Kissed a picture? Yes. 1982. Kurt Russell as Snake Plisskin from “Escape from New York”. Screw Teen Beat! EFNY rules!
  
• Fallen asleep at work/school? No, but not for lack of trying.
  
• Held an actual snake? As opposed to a pretend one? A figurative one? A symbolic one?
  
• Ever run a red light? I’m more of a California stop person, not a light runner.
  
• Ever drink and drive? Once.
  
• Been suspended from school? No way. I didn’t become a delinquent until I grew up.
  
• Ever been fired from a job? Yes, but I got it back after some well-worded begging.
  
• Been in a fist fight? Never landed a punch, but I dodge and weave very well.
  
• Sang karaoke? Does opera karaoke count?
  
• Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t? Far too often.
  
• Laughed until something you were drinking came out your nose? I seem to remember an ugly incident involving spaghetti and milk when I was about eight years old.
  
• Ever gone “under the knife?” Unfortunately.
• Ever laughed until you wet yourself? Yes. Four words: college, beer, winter, snowbank.
  
• Ever been dumpster diving. Yep. Got some good stuff that way too.
  
• Kissed in the rain? I remember crying in the rain, but never kissing.
  
• Sang in the shower? Oh yeah.
  
• Sat on a rooftop? Yes.
• Ever witnessed a crime? Yes. It was not cool like Law & Order at all.
  
• Thought about your past with regret? Who hasn’t? Oh, dammit, I shouldn’t have said that!
  
• Been pushed in the pool with your clothes on? No. I would NOT find that funny.
  
• Skinny dipped? Yes, but there are no witnesses.
  
• Had sex in a public place? No. I’m a darkened room kind of person.
  
• Blacked out from drinking? No. I’m a very wide-awake drunk.
  
• Taken naked pics? Yes, but they’re all destroyed.
  
• Cried yourself to sleep? More often than I wish was true.
  
• Fired a gun? God yes! I have been trained in all kinds of weaponry, survival, and defense skills (something very few people know about me).
  
• Liked someone with nobody else knowing about it? I’m an expert.
  
• Played strip poker? Nope.
• Been to a strip joint? No, but I have been invited.
  
• Donated Blood? Yes, quite a few times.
  
• Liked someone you shouldn’t? Let me tell you a story….
  
• Have a tattoo? No.
  
• Been to jail? No, not even to visit.
  
• Have or had any piercings? Yes, ears only (sorry guys!).
  
• Made out with a complete stranger? I think so. I might have been drinking at the time.
  
• Had a one night stand? I’ll never tell.
  
• Caught someone cheating on you? Damn skippy.
  
• Mooned/Flashed someone? Naw, I don’t do that shit.
  
• Been to a rodeo? A what?
  
• Been to a NASCAR race? A wha-what?
  
• Been in Love? To paraphrase Don’t Date That Dude, one might say I’ve often “chosen codependence over independence and trademarked it love”.
  
• Met a celebrity? Met a celebrity? I AM one (in my own mind—bahaha!)
  
• Been on TV? Yes.
  
• Know how to cook? Badly, yes. Actually, I’m not nearly as bad as I think I am.
  
• Slept outdoors? Yes and no. I’ve slept outdoors with protection (tent, car, screening), but never on the bare ground. Too many bugs and critters.
  
• Spent the night in a snow cave? No. And to think I lived to tell the tale!
  
• Slept with someone knowing you didn’t like them? No. I may be self-loathing, but I don’t get into that shit.
  
• Smoked? I have the talent for smoking realistically on screen or stage, but I am not a smoker per se. I think the stuff is nasty.
  
• Ever done drugs? Whaaa?
  
• Thought you were going to drown? No.
  
• Play an instrument? A few, but while I’m an enthusiastic student and I work hard at it, I’m not terribly talented.
  
• Bungee jumped, skydived, based jumped, etc? No. I don’t understand the appeal AT ALL.

TAG: If you’ve read this far, you’re officially tagged!

The devil inside

My mystery birthday present arrived today straight from the posh home of my sister.

Everyone has been curious about what she’d be sending me this year. Cee was betting it would be a mess of fat clothes in ugly colors. My brother’s wife had suggested that the present for my 40th birthday might be a quilt at long last—Sis is a world-class quilter and had made gorgeous quilts for every friend and relative she has, but not one for me. She’s a very serious quilter—her sewing machine cost $25,000 (my car isn’t even worth that!).

Sis gives away quilts as fast as she churns them out. Friends, family, visitors, pastors, local community events, even charity auctions and museum displays have her quilts, but —that’s right—not a single one to her only sister, and neither of her two brothers. I’ll guarantee you that most of my sister’s friends don’t even realize we exist. The only time I remember her making a fuss about me with her friends was when I was F-list “Famous” several years ago. Oh, she had me on display big time just like a good little performing monkey. “This is my sister, the star” she would introduce me. Didn’t last long though, so now that’s over, I’m back to being the simpleminded, fat, hayseed eatin’ barefoot bumpkin living in some rundown shack up in some boondock town, who’s so incredibly lame, she can’t even hang onto her gay boyfriend. Good God! These friends of hers must think I’m Jodie Foster in Nell.

So, when Sis called me to ask questions about our family heritage a few months ago (I have the old handwritten family tree in the safe deposit box), and I obliged and sent copies along, my sweet-hearted Sister-In-Law became fully convinced that Sis was planning a quilt for my 40th birthday. “She knows it’s your 40th, so she’s going to do something meaningful. Doesn’t that make sense?” I love that SIL is always so optimistic. I knew better, but I admit, I hoped I was wrong.

I’m not a fan of quilts by any means, but I appreciate art, and Sis does some pretty exceptional work. It really hurts me—I mean, honestly, aches in my gut—when she shows me a quilt that she’s planning to give to some out-of-town visitor friend of her husband’s who already has two of her prized quits, and yet, I, her own sister, don’t own even one.

With that in mind, I have to admit, when UPS dropped off that big ass box on my porch, I thought… maybe…. However, the minute I picked up the box, the contents gave themselves away. My sister’s quilts weigh a TON; whatever was in the box didn’t weigh much at all.

I opened the box to find that whoever packed it,… well,…. didn’t. Two large gift bags and two small gift bags and their contents were strewn about the box since they had not been packed properly. For someone like my anal-retentive Sister, always concerned with the appearance of perfection, this mess was shocking. The first thing I noticed was the smell—like spoiled limes. Not offensive, but very strong. The smell came from this leather(?) egyptian-theme embossed drawstring backpack. Strange. No identifying tags, nothing. But it smells like old limes. Also strewn about, a pet carrying tote in a carpetbagger theme. My dog hates being picked up in luggage, but I’m still curious to see if he’ll tolerate it. Also, a necklace made of art glass. Not bad, but it doesn’t look like something I would buy for myself. Last, and weirdest of all, a little bag of fairy-themed things. This goes along with the operetta I was in last summer, I think—I THINK that’s what she’s going for, because whatever it is, it’s REALLY cheap like some kiddie kit you’d buy at the dollar store. It makes no sense. Glitter dust body powder, glitter fairy dust, and a resin fairy nighlight (”made in china”) with plastic flowers glued to the bodice.

These are all the sorts of things that, if asked, my sister would say, “Margaret, I saw these things and they were SO tacky, I had to get them for you.” As the look of shock goes over my face, she’d correct with, “Oh don’t be so sensitive, you know I’m just teasing you. Jeez. Can’t you take a joke?”

Nobody does passive aggressive as well as my sister does. She’s even better than Aunt Crazypants.

This is the last time we’re going to do the present exchange thing. If his is the best she can do when she thinks of me, I’d rather she didn’t waste the time or money.

It started innocently enough with the Christmas right after my Mom died. We hadn’t been exchanging presents for a couple of years before that, but with such a big shift in both our lives, it seemed like a good time to acknowledge that despite everything, we’re important to each other. For me, my friends had moved away, I’d broken up with my boyfriend, my family was gone, and my mom was dead (sounds like a country song!). I had no one. There would be no presents under my tree that year. While Sis had a family, she felt unappreciated because none of them wrapped anything nicely, and the presents were never that thoughtful. So we made a pact to try to make each other’s Christmases and Birthdays special, and for a few years, it worked great. I sent Sis the most beautifully wrapped presents with nice ribbons and cards for under her tree that were well thought out and special just for her, and in return, I received tons of presents (also carefully chosen and wrapped to perfection) to open under my singleton tree.

For the first couple of years, it was FUN. We’re both competitive people, and we’d try to outdo each other. I liked to include games with mine. One year, I wrote out survivor-like riddles on the presents that I sent to her with a clue about what’s inside or why I picked it out. That went over like gangbusters. On my presents, Sis liked to do themes either with colors or with what lay within the wrapping. When I was studying opera, I had a whole bunch of presents that were ALL opera themed. Autographed DVDs, sheet music, etc. Very thoughtful.

In the last few years, as she and I have drifted apart more and spent significantly less time together, it’s like we’re struggling to come up with new ideas. To be fair, you can’t get clues for what the other person really wants or needs if you don’t take the time to listen to them anymore. Besides, Sis has grandkiddies now that she spends all her time doting on, and has very little time to call me or talk on the phone like she used to. Plus, she has run out of patience with what she perceives as my bohemian lifestyle. “You don’t have much time left to settle down,” she’ll remind me. Yeah, duh, I know, thanks for rubbing it in. Jerk.

After opening all the ‘presents’ tonight, I sat in awe of their sheer sucktitude. I picked up the phone to share my horror with my kindhearted SIL who shared my shock. “Why would she send ANY of that to you?” she said with rising anger, “She paid actual money to ship that shit up to you for what? Why? Was she purposely trying to insult you? Why would anyone waste the time to buy it then waste the time to mail it and expect you to be grateful that you received it?”

I told her what I’ve been telling her for years. “Because she’s evil. It’s what she does.”

Don’tcha just love family?

Unappreciated Coolness: Dandelions

Perhaps it says a lot about me that I’m a fan of the lowly dandelion.

The dandelion is the plague of many a gardener including myself. I know grown men that have been brought to tears fighting dandelions in their lawns—they’ll tell you stories of battling this weed like men scarred in the foxholes of war.

Still, at the risk of sounding like a tree-hugging hippie, I have to say there’s something admirable about these tenacious weeds. What Mom hasn’t been brought a proud bouquet of dandelion heads from their unassuming kids? Maybe they know something we adults don’t—appreciating the beauty of these humble and readily available bright yellow flowers?

Think about it… what defines a weed? Aren’t most perennials simply cultivated weeds that we’ve chosen to pay big money for? Off the top of my head, I’m thinking foxglove, columbine, daisies, lupines—all available in your local field for free. Yet, put it in a pot and slap a $20 price tag on it, and suddenly, it’s a rare perennial, not a weed.

Here’s why I think dandelions are cool:

• They’ll survive anything. As every gardener knows, you can cut them down, dig them up, spray them with poison, yet somehow, the dandelion lives.
• They grow anywhere. They’ll grow in the shade or in the sun. They’ll survive a drought or a flood. They’ll pop up inbetween the cracks in a sidewalk or on top of a pile of rocks.
• They’re useful. If the economy ever crashes, and there’s no food to eat, look to your lawn for dandelions. Their leaves can be added to salads or cooked like mustard greens. The root can be cut up and added to soup (like a turnip). The flower heads can be added to salads or turned in to wine.
• Bees like ‘em. In addition to being edible, the plant offers a very important source of food to hungry honeybees, butterflies, and several species of moth. The opening of the first dandelion signals honeybee season and the warm summer days to come.
• Wishies. What kid hasn’t made a wish by blowing on a dandelion head? C’mon. You know you did it too, and your father probably had a stroke watching you blow those seeds all over the yard.
• They’re really pretty. A field covered in a sea of bright yellow dandelion flowers is an underappreciated summer delight.

As an experiment this summer, I’m going to dig up several dandelions from the yard and make display pots out of them. The neighbors will really think I’ve lost my mind, but I believe I can tame these weeds into some enviable displays that people will think I paid a lot of money for.

You say you don’t know, you won’t know, until you begin

I get into this sad, self indulgent place at least once every few weeks (or is it every few days?) and can do nothing but wait it out. Thank you all for the support and kind words when it gets dark for me—it’s really means a lot and helps me get through this.

At 8pm last night, my new white trash neighbor, a young man who looks to be about 20 years old, decided to blast his rap music so loud that, on the opposite side of my house with all the windows shut, the shelves shook and it sounded like it was playing in my living room. So, for the fourth time in two weeks, I placed a call to the police to report the disturbance (I decided to put the cops on speed dial).

I’ve never had to do this before with any other neighbor. I officially felt OLD. I justified my complaint not only because of the high decibel level, but because of the offensive number of “Fucks” in the music! I’m no prude, but there are limits. There are a lot of little kids running around my neighborhood, and nobody needs to hear some trashy neighbor blasting his fuck-based rap music. Whatever you want to listen to in private is your business, but when you play it so loud that the shelves shake in the next house over, I have the right to intervene. Lucky for me, the police actually showed up this time to tell him to turn it down, and he did. Now I’m worried about retaliation.

As I get closer to my 40th birthday (two weeks from today), I’m getting really introspective because I’m feeling really old and alone. Being by myself through this makes it worse, of course, but… well,.. there it is. Time marches on whether you like it or not. Like death and taxes, it’s the only thing a person can count on for sure.

Honestly, when you’re a kid, you never, ever imagine what it’s going to be like crossing that line into old fogeydom at 40. It’s not your fault—you have no frame of reference…. yet.

Kids today, downloading from iTunes, listening to Rihanna and Miley Cyrus their iPods, and watching American Idol on TV can possibly grasp the concept that, someday surprisingly soon, all these things will be considered vintage. Yes, kiddies, VINTAGE. Classic Rock. Classic TV. “Remember When” shows.

Think about it: it’s already happening with commentators talking about the superiority of “early” Britney Spears music. Superiority? Jesus H. Crackers, people, since when is bubblegum bullshit like “Hit Me Baby One More Time” considered high art? Speaking of which, all those snooty commentators that talk about classic Madonna records can get off their artistic high horses too. Fluff is fluff, whether it’s 80’s or 08’s.

Plus, whatever media young people are accustomed to listening to music or watching TV on now—whether iPod, CD, DVD, whatever—will change so radically, they can’t even fathom it now. We might be receiving radio signals straight into our heads in 20 years—who knows?

For everyone over the age of 30, how old do YOU feel? When you think of yourself, when you think of your face, what do you see?

I see myself at about 16 years old. I tell myself I’m turning 40 and it doesn’t register. I see myself weeding my mother’s vegetable garden while Van Halen’s “Jump” plays on the radio in 1984. I remember thinking to myself how cool all the current music sounded compared to the oldies of 10 years prior. “They didn’t know good music then,” I thought to myself as I analyzed the electronic percussion and synthesizer riffs that were so popular in all Top 40 music in 1984. Wow… 1984. To me, that date still feels like a big deal.

Hell, speaking of Pop Tarts and fluff music, I remember when Madonna’s “Lucky Star” video broke big and made her a force to be reckoned with. There were so many other tarty singers coming out at the time. I was babysitting, and my young charge and I decided to watch MTV (on the promise that she didn’t tell her mom), when Madonna first appeared on the television. We loved the song, and were mesmerized by the video, but did I think she’d still be singing pop songs and making videos almost 25 years later? Nobody knew.

I know that this rap-loving white trash neighbor of mine has no idea that he’s offending me—nor does he care. Young people seem to lack the ability to understand that sound travels. I was no different. I used to sit in my bedroom and blast Madonna and Whitney Houston and sing at the top of my lungs, never realizing that my parents could hear everything downstairs clear as day. Nor did it ever occur to me that it might boher them. Somehow, I thought that when my bedroom door was shut, the world was closed off.

The world is never closed off. I’ve often considered employing counter-measures against my neighbor. After all, I’m older and have much more experience in being crafty. Maybe I’ll blast him with the soundtrack to Pirates of Penzance. That’ll fix him!

What is wrong with people?

I have mentioned in a recent previous article that I have one of the most envied yards in my neighborhood, enough so, that before I put up the fence around it, people often adopted it as their own. In the back of my property, I have a small grove of the most massive, gorgeous ancient lilac trees you’ve ever seen in your life. Easily 100 years old, these lilacs burst forth every spring with a plethora of blooms, some of which are as long as my forearm. It’s an amazing sight to behold.

So, every spring, I clip these gigantic lilac trees back, trim off the blooms, and put them into several large bins near the road with a “Free” sign on them (the sign also says “Please take flowers, but do NOT take bins or buckets”). It’s sort of my gift to the neighborhood. Thanks to Global Warming, the blossoms were extra early and extra big this year, in time for Mother’s day, so I clipped them this morning, bright and early, in time for the church crowd. Bit by bit, people stopped by and picked out a bunch to take with them. Some on bicycles, some in cars. It tickles me whenever I see the occasional little kid out there scooping out a bunch for his Mom.

Every year, there are the greedy ones who scoop out ALL the blooms and pile them into their cars to take them wherever. I go out and clip some more—there are always more—so I don’t normally fuss about that too much. Then there are the ones who are messy—pull out a handful of stems and dump the ones they don’t want along the roadside. Every year, I deal with those too. That’s less fun.

This year, however, I had to deal with the worst of them all: the thieves. One guy on a motorcycle took it upon himself to steal one of the big buckets—lilacs and water and all—and took off balancing the enormous thing on the handlebars. That had to be illegal driving. I thought maybe he just needed the bucket for transportation and would bring it back. Bah! He hasn’t, of course. Then, a family in a brand new van stopped to take some. Much to my surprise, I saw the father step out and load the remaining 16-gallon bin—not just a few stems mind you, but ALL the lilacs, water, and even the sign hanging from it that says “Please do not take bin”—into the back of his van and started to take off when I ran out to stop him.

He looked at me puzzled. “Uh, did you need the bin?” he asked.

“Yes, please!” I insisted, “Someone already came along and took one, so this is the only bin left.” The guy looked kind of puzzled, so I offered (like an idiot), “If you really need to use it to transport them, you’re welcome to, but I really need the bin back.”

“Oh sure, absolutely! No problem. I’ll bring it back tonight.”

I don’t know why I said that or offered the use of the bin to him despite the fact that he was clearly stealing it. Maybe it was because it’s Mother’s day and I was feeling generous. Nonetheless, I’m not expecting to get my bin back.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE??? Does this guy really need every lilac that I put out there? Don’t people know how to share anymore?

I don’t mean to sound bitter, but, fuckin’ a, people—what the hell? I’m left thinking people are COMPLETE assholes. All I wanted to do was something nice for people on Mother’s day—a day I myself cannot enjoy, but thought my bounty could bring pleasure to others. This jerk took EVERYTHING—now I can’t even put out lilacs for anyone else because there’s no bin left to put them in.

Self-inflicted loneliness: the scourge of the fat cells

Ya gotta love the whole “being fat again” thing. Ultimately losing the battle and reemerging into the social scene as an obese pariah is simply unbearable.

People love to make fun of fat people, or if nothing else, see them through a lens of shock and disgust. I’m no different. Once, I saw an incredibly obese woman in Walmart with a body and clothing so dirty, it looked as if she hadn’t bathed in a year (her back and shoulders were filthy). I was horrified. To me, this is worst-case scenario type of fat, and something I never want to be. Nonetheless, I feel like that woman now.

The vast majority of my current friends and acquaintances (with one or two exceptions) are people that didn’t know me when I was Plus-Size; they only knew me as a funloving, sexy, fashionable Size M-L with great shoes. These folks cannot understand what the hell has happened to me. It must be very confusing for them to watch me avoiding the social scene, not acting bubbly like I was.

It’s also interesting to note that, as I write this, I recall the first signs that something was desperately wrong was my sudden loss of interest in fashion and footwear as I became despairing over my frustrating relationship with HWSNBN. I stopped straightening my hair and just let it go wild and curly. I stopped shopping for great jewelry and started wearing the same old boring things day in and day out. I lost interest in shopping and reading fashion magazines.

I’ve heard that excess fat cells actually secrete a hormone that encourages depression and inactivity. It’s possible, but I can’t tell if it was the egg or the chicken that came first in my case. Now that I’m fat again, I stay home—a lot—and sleep a lot (or at least I try to). I don’t socialize at all anymore. Anyone invites me to a restaurant, I immediately balk because I don’t want to make a spectacle of myself (you know, nobody wants to see a fat person eating, that kind of thing). And formal events? Job interviews? Forget it. My closet full of beautiful dresses and suits are at least four sizes too small for me now, so I wear nothing but tee shirts and jeans now. Footwear? No more pointy toed sleek pumps or colorful slingbacks. Now it’s old worn out boots over long jeans or old clogs in either black or brown. No shorts, no skirts. My wardrobe has become virtually joyless. Really sad.

So last night, when my brother’s wife invited me to a family picnic on my birthday weekend (Memorial Day weekend), my mouth said, “Sounds interesting, maybe!” but my brain said, “Hell no! How can I get out of this and not hurt anyone’s feelings?”

The last time these people saw me was over a year ago when I’d gained a couple of pounds, but wasn’t nearly as heavy as I am now. I can’t go to this picnic—I just can’t be seen like this. I know I shouldn’t care, but these people are family—I can take the pity of strangers, but not them.

So instead I stay home and feel all “woe is me” for my predicament. Someone asked me the other day, when seeing a severely obese person walk by, “How can anyone let themselves get like that?”. Well, folks, this is. This is how fat people get fatter—in the absence of social interaction, in the absence of joy, in the absence of popularity, something must fill the void. A body in motion stays in motion, but a body at rest stays at rest. It’s the basis for physics, and the basis for fat. The bigger you get, the less likely you are to move around. The less you move around, the less likely you are to get up and do something.

That’s why I’ve been practically forcing myself to use the stairs, or get out in the yard and work, even if it’s just a few minutes (which is all I can do before I’m really winded and sweaty). Eecchh, the sweat. That’s the worst. Normal people climb stairs and don’t have anything odd happen to them physically. I walk one stupid flight of stairs, sweat profusely and breathe as if I just ran a 4-minute mile. That’s just ri-damn-diculous! So I force myself to do it again because I’m so insulted that I’ve done this to myself.

Still, that elevator beckons—how much easier it would be to press a button instead of walk the stairs. I did it the other day, just because I didn’t want to bother getting sweaty before sitting in my cubicle. How stupid is that?

And so I thought to myself, “That’s why.” Every day that we choose to not take the stairs, to eat at McDonald’s instead of making something nutritious at home, every time one of our friends cajoles us into eating seconds when we’re already full, we do ourselves a disservice. Because being fat has its own set of rules. Maybe I didn’t set this up. Maybe genetics caused this. Maybe I was raised wrong. Whatever the reason is, I’m now stuck with deciding what to do about it.

It’s not about one bad choice; it’s dozens. I know that. Now I need to turn it around—or keep myself in self-imposed social isolation forever.

Paige Davis bows to the power House

Once again, as blatant blog filler, I present my search engine top ten list.

#10: Creeping Crud. The flu strikes again.

#9: Dog Pack. Last night, I watched an interesting documentary on manufacture of dog food. The industry is virtually unregulated—almost anything goes into the making of dog food and there’s virtually no nutritional difference between so-called “premium” dog foods and grocery store brands. It’s all made from spare animal parts (beaks, feet, noses, etc, not premium cuts as they may advertise), cheap grains, cooked down to a sludge, then vitamins are added. As an example of what you can get away with, producers even made a perfectly legal dog food from wood chips and leather work boots that met industry standards! Pretty damn scary. I’m glad that my dog eats homemade dog food instead.

#8: Brain in a jar. Hfuhruhurr….

#7: Don’t you love farce? Yes, I certainly do.

#6: Writing press release with “no college”. Engrish me speak goodly when I go school.

#5: Who you gonna call? If you don’t know who you’re gonna call, then it doesn’t matter what number you dial.

#4: Cesar Millan. The new season probably won’t start until fall, but I miss the Dog Whisperer. My dog is getting spoiled again.

#3: Champagne. For some weird reason, people check my blog A LOT based on a search on this word alone. I don’t get it. Folks, this is a whine blog, not a wine blog (ba-dum-bum).

#2: Paige Davis. The perennially perky favorite has been displaced by…

#1: TV show House. Like I said, best show on television, but I do admit to occasionally thinking the writers are slipping. Far be it for me to be hypercritical of something that I love so much, but a few days ago, I wrote an unpublished article about my concerns that House may have jumped the shark with this week’s episode. I smell chum in the water. This week, House kidnapped his favorite soap opera star when the actor displayed some unusual symptoms on the show. This is the kind of thing that really goes too far past suspension of disbelief. Wouldn’t House get arrested for kidnapping? Wouldn’t the actor’s agents, friends, and producers think the guy’s absence from the set is a little unusual? Didn’t anybody think this through? I’m sure House will recover to live another year as cranky as ever, but this kind of stuff makes me worry.

Food shortage? What food shortage?

The other night, Jay Leno joked that we, in this country, simultaneously have an obesity crisis and a food shortage. “Shouldn’t those two cancel each other out?” he joked.

It’s sad because it’s true.

The one comfort I can take in having gained back most of the weight I originally lost on Atkins years ago is that I am NOT alone. Statistics show that the vast majority (I’ve heard as high as 95%) of people who lose weight will gain it all back at some point. Why? I believe it’s our society: fish gotta swim, Americans gotta eat (a lot!). Everywhere you turn, food is affordable, easy to get, easy to fix, and might good eatin’ too. Problem is, the easiest and cheapest food to acquire isn’t always the best for you. McDonalds, Wendy’s, Burger King, Krispy Kreme — the drive-thru is tantamount to instant food porn. We want it all and we want it right now. And that’s not even touching on the emotional side of obesity, the social outcasting, the self-medicating, all that.

Hey, I can say it, because I’m right there. I know.

And, like I said, I’m not alone. Even people who have half their stomachs cut out don’t get a free pass. Take, for instance, the case of singer Carnie Wilson. Originally over 300 pounds, she famously opted for Gastric Bypass Surgery several years ago and lost half her body weight. Watching her in photos over the years, her weight has fluctuated up and down a bit, but only recently ballooned more than halfway back to where she was. She blames it on baby weight, but I’ve seen this too often before—that’s not all there is to it.

Another companion in weight regain is Al Roker, yet another famous proponent of the Gastric Bypass procedure. He’s gained back quite a lot of the weight he’d originally lost, but it seems to have stabilized for now. I hope for his sake he’s getting some help pulling it under control. I’ve read that a lot of people who lose a great deal of weight like this, find themselves regaining and feeling too ashamed to seek help. I recognize myself in that statistic too.

The gastric bypass procedure is not an easy-out like many people think.

I personally know quite a few people who have had the surgery, all of whom have gained back at least some of the fat they originally lost. One gained it all back and then some. Another never lost more than 50 pounds and is struggling to keep that small amount off. Yet another finds her weight is creeping back up in 10 pound increments, and is absolutely panicked that she won’t be able to stop it before it’s too late. Problem is, with half these patients’ guts cut out, there’s only so much they can do to combat the problem, and it’s complicated by the nutritional deficiencies created by the original surgery.

Many still insist that the surgery was worth it. Even a few days at normal weight is worth it. How said is it that our society so outcasts fat people that having a painful surgical procedure that isn’t 100% effective is worth it for just a few days of normalcy? Wow.

Me? I’m gearing myself up for a renewal of my Atkins vows if for no other reason than my health. I’m sick of getting winded going up the stairs. I’m tired of not being able to bend over freely with that damned belly fat in the way. And, from an ego standpoint. I’m terrified of wearing short sleeved shirts in the office because my fat, flabby arms will be that much more obvious (hah! as if nobody’s noticed I’ve gained a few pounds!!)

I don’t want to restart the diet right now because of all the stress I’m under with work. Yeah, that sounds like a cheap copout even as I write it, but the way I look at it, it’s better to be realistic about it than start a new diet and regain all the weight yet again. Yo-yo dieting is where the real hazards are.

Losing weight has to be done when I’m ready to do it and wear my “Go To Hell” glasses to filter out what the rest of the world thinks! It’s a lifelong change—even people who have physically altering procedures can’t keep it off. Obesity is a chronic disease that requires a daily commitment on the part of the individual to eat properly EVERY DAY and diet and exercise for a lifetime.

Oh man, it’s good to know I’m not alone, but this is too depressing. I need a cookie!

Sanctimony Superstar

If my last two posts seemed at all preachy, I apologize. As I’m starting to get back my backbone (Getting Back Your Backbone™), I’m also getting a little cheeky with myself. I do tend to do that.

One of the life lessons I gleaned from my big weight loss success was to not to allow myself to stand on any sanctimony. I was the star attraction at a wedding I went to shortly after I’d lost all the weight several years ago, wherein I ran into a lot of people who hadn’t seen me since I was quite heavy. Every single one—without fail—fawned praise all over me and demanded (stomp foot!) to know how I did it. Flattered by all the attention (attention I hadn’t seen since I was previously a ’stahhh’) I got up on my soapbox and told everyone how I’d figured out that cutting out carbs was the Path to American Health (I still believe it, but don’t practice what I preach). Even though in some cases I was being cornered and interrogated by people I hardly knew, I happily obliged to go into great scientific detail about the process of lipolysis—in the interests of educating the unwashed masses, you understand. People listened with rapt attention and amazement, but now, I think my reputation would have been better served by smiling humbly and saying I did it through good old-fashioned diet and exercise. Being a big personality does have its downside.

All those people, if they saw me now that I’m fat again, would happily climb on the ‘Told Ya So’ bandwagon and lynch me from the eaves of the nearest Krispy Kreme.

Life is a learning experience, and I’m always excited to share what I’ve learned with people—what works and what doesn’t. There is a quote (I think it’s from Robert Downey Jr.) that goes something along the lines of, “If you do not remember to be humble, humility will be thrust upon you,” and I think that is very true.