Not too long ago, a Facebook post by James Fell ran through my newsfeed. (If you don’t follow him, you should. He’s pretty great.)
Here’s what he had to say.
The comments were, as you could probably guess, reactive.Read More
03
Jun
Jun
It’s allergy season.
I live in the sagebrush dotted hills of Yakima Valley in Eastern Washington State. ‘Having allergies’ is no small thing.
We are a city of farms and crops and flowers and trees, so pollen. We’re practically a desert, if it weren’t for irrigation, so dust. Also animals, “because farms,” so dander. Once the scorching summer sun comes out in full force the weeds take off like wildfire, which means more pollen. The ragweed kind.
omg allergies.
To be fair, I don’t suffer as bad as some, but in my old(er) age (wtf total bs) I have developed a Goliath histamine response. From late April until late June, I’m Seven Dwarves all by myself – sneezy, watery, sleepy, cranky, runny, itchy, bitchy, and for the most part a completely unpleasant person to spend time with.
When my allergies get really bad, I stop listening to people when they talk. I spend half my time at work staring into space, the other half blowing my body weight in boogers out my nose.
I can’t focus, I can’t pay attention, because I’m too busy wishing I could shove a puffy pipe cleaner down my throat and out my schnoz (like the crazy-eyed middle school kid did with spaghetti in the lunch room), then grab both ends and give them hell, just to itch the spot inside my head that doesn’t stop itching for three months.
ALLERGIES.
I can hear you now.
[“Um… just take an allergy pill. They do make those, you know.”]
Yes, yes they do.
Trouble is, I’m also an addict.
PILLS are a problem for me.Read More
26
Feb
Feb
For those of you that follow, you’ll know all about this.
The Body Image Project
goal
Through this Project, you will construct a deeper level of comfort with and acceptance of your body. When executed as intended, the Project will help you to develop a relationship with your body that is positive, welcoming, peaceful, and harmonious.
procedure
To participate in The Body Image Project, take photos of your body every day, according to the schedule below. Once you have taken your daily picture, look at it. REALLY LOOK. Think about the part of your body you’ve photographed, then sit in meditation or write out answers to the questions that follow.Read More
14
Jan
Jan
Have you ever played poker?
I love to play. My dad taught me at a young age, and I grew up playing cards with uncles and cousins.
In the game of poker, there’s a term called “pot committed.” All things considered, between the hand you’re holding, the other players you’re betting against, the stack of chips in front of you, and the amount of your stack you’ve already pushed into the pot, “pot committed” means one thing.
You HAVE to play.Read More
09
Oct
Oct
I am a Body Dysmorphic.
In scientific terms, that means I am “characterized by persistent and intrusive preoccupations with an imagined or slight defect in my appearance.” It means I struggle with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive thoughts about the way I look.
According to the American Psychiatric Association, it means I have a chronic mental illness.
(That should probably bother me, but it doesn’t really… I always knew I was a little bit crazy.)
In layman’s terms, Body Dysmorphia means “I don’t like my body.” There are parts I would even say I hate. I don’t hate all of the parts, just some. And, those parts I hate, I spend a heck of a lot of time thinking about them. They’re always there. Whereas most (normal) people exist in their skin without giving their body much thought, I think about my body all. the. time.Read More
16
Sep
Sep
So… I’m kind of a perfectionist.
[I can hear the people who know me best, snorting and laughing. My brother’s guffaws are loudest. JUST SHUSH, BROTHER. I KNOW.]
Really though, JUST KIND OF. I’m kind of a perfectionist.
My brother’s laughter is not without warrant. I used to be an over-the-top, anal retentive, angry, bossy, OCD, anxiety ridden, control freak perfectionist. I’m not anymore. [Seriously guys, really.]
After years and years of driving myself into the dirt, setting personal goals to deliver the world and then feeling like a failure if I didn’t OVERdeliver the whole effing universe, hating myself for never living up to what I could be instead of what I AM, I got tired of it.
Sure, there are still things that I get clenchy about.
Like making my bed. I can go from zero to bitchface in the same amount of time it takes a small child to jump into my halfway-made bed, which (I have found) is less than one second. I like straight, tight sheets and covers, pillows plumped just right, cases clean and all facing the same direction. Once the bed is made I don’t expect it to stay that way, but while I’m making it, BACK OFF.
I like my closet arranged “just so.” I arrange all the shirts on matching hangers, facing the same direction, in order of sleeve length and sub-categorized by color, partially because it makes me happy, but also because I can tell simply by looking which shirts are in the laundry, and what color laundry needs to be done next.
27
Aug
Aug
This last weekend, I attended a personal development workshop.
There were 25 of us in attendance. We filled one small meeting room. For the duration of the event, I was seated next to and paired with a delightful woman. Her name is Kate. She offers personal coaching, owns her own business(es), and is raising a BE.YOOTIFUL. little girl, all by herself. Kate is a powerhouse of a human being, independent, strong, outspoken, and she lives her life louder than any other woman I’ve ever met. I was in awe of her at first sight (and a little intimidated, to be honest), and my awe deepened as I got to know her over our few days together.
Kate’s sense of style cannot be overstated. For the event, she was wearing a little black dress and super cute, wedge heels. We worked together as partners throughout the day, and every time I was asked to turn and look at her face I was impressed. I would turn toward her, take in her genuine smile, the frenzy of intelligence behind her eyes, and the don’t-let-the-serious-topic-fool-you-I-am-a-bad-ass gold, hoop piercing in her nose, and I had the same thought every time.
“Damn.”
EVERY TIME. Same thought.
“Damn.”
(I also thought “great rack, amazing eyelashes, I love the bangs,” and every time I hugged her I immensely enjoyed her curvy goodness, but yes. Mostly just “…DAMN.”)
At one point in my not-so-distant past, sitting next to Lovely Kate would have made me want to hide. (Seriously. She’s so amazing.) She is confident. She is absolutely GIRL. She is intelligent, feminine, sexy, strong. She is, in my mind, what I should probably want to be. The put-together, intentional, presidential persona she so successfully displays is what every professional, confident woman should strive for.
…yeaaaaahhh………
I’m so, so, so, SO SO SO not like Kate.Read More
03
Jul
Jul
Day 1.
….well, actually it’s day 3. July 3rd.
I had fully intended on starting this project on the first day in July, to run the whole month. Then we went out of town for a family reunion, then my week was full of crazy catch up because I was gone from all three jobs for two days, then yesterday I was filling out a deposit slip for work, looked up the date (because I had no idea what day it was), and it said “July 2.”
[“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.”]
That’s usually how it is with me. GREAT INTENTIONS. Pretty great planning. Moderately acceptable execution.
Frequently drops the ball.
As an OCD-control-freak-overachiever-perfectionist, that last part grieves me.
The perfectionist part of me wants to spend the day today writing THREE articles, not just one. Take three pictures, post three blogs, back date the first two. Six hours later, done and done. I’d have started on the first (even if I hadn’t), I’d be COMPLETE, the project would be whole, and when it was all over I’d have one completely intact, just-right, no-holes, no missing parts blog project. My FIRST blog project, and it would be a roaring success.
…but then I got to thinking.
“Isn’t that expectation of perfection the problem I’ve got with my body in the first place?”Read More
05
May
May
Today I was at the grocery store, tasked with the purchase of candy for my kids’ candy bucket. We don’t keep a lot of sugar in the house, just a small, 2 quart container full of their favorite treats, but it is where they go to pick their dessert and the occasional sweet reward. The bucket holds caramels, mints, tootsie rolls, and random, fun size bars. (Although my idea of fun is way, way, one million times bigger, it works for the kids’ tiny bodies.)
Our candy bucket was getting low, and so I promised them some more variety. “Next time I’m at the store I’ll check.”
As I entered the candy aisle at the grocery store, I was feeling pretty good. In fact, I felt almost nothing. I was strong and sound of mind and spirit, I wasn’t hungry (always a plus), and I looked for a bag of candy like it was a carton of eggs. No emotion, no dilemma, no chaos.
Then I saw the stupid cinnamon bears.
DAMNIT.
07
Apr
Apr
Someone once told me, “You binge and starve because you don’t understand food. Food is fuel, it is not emotional. You can’t feel food. Stop making it more than what it is. Stop making it harder than it needs to be. Just eat what your body needs and leave the rest.”
My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. My ears caught fire. Even now as I write this, I rage. Outwardly I replied with “….um okay, whatever,” but in my head I was stabbing this person in the neck with a sharp cookie. “CAN YOU FEEL THE FOOD NOW?!”
I can. I always can.
Those in the WLR community know the rule. Weight loss and healthy living are 20% exercise, 80% diet and nutrition. Pretty simple. The rule is not based in observation or opinion, but in scientific fact. No matter how you feel about it, food makes up 80% of your weight loss success or failure.
No matter how you feel about it.
As a disordered eater, therein lies the struggle.
I can work out. I lift heavy free weights with the big boys. I am happy to play pickup games in the gym all day long, ride a bike, crank a jagged rock face. I can work and sweat until Niagara Falls runs off my face, darkens my shirt, and soaks my underpants. I can run lines, run intervals, use the stair mill until I can’t lift my feet off the floor. I grew up doing farm work – cross fit and the content of Spartan races are what we called “weekend chores.”
Working out is easy.
Eating right is hard.Read More
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