Another day

Another day, another pair of pants that don't fit. And it's not like these were an obscenely tiny size, either.

I wish this didn't bother me so much.

I just feel like everyone who told me I wouldn' t gain too much weight - Dr. M, my nutritionist, my doc - I feel like they all lied to me. Eating normally, eating like everyone else DID make me gain weight.

Apparently my options are these: restrict my eating and have a body that doesn't give me fits, or eat "normally" and have love handles, muffin-tops, you name it.

And I know I am the ONLY one who gives a damn. My family doesn't, Jim doesn't, my friends don't. They don't think I've "let myself go."

I want to believe them. I'm trying to believe them.

Nerves

I have a lunch meeting with one of the founders of the Zienzele Foundation, which I've been interning for this quarter. I won't be the only one there, of course - in fact, it might be hard for me to even make myself noticeable. Which is okay, because I'm super nervous. What if she doesn't like me? What if I put my foot in it somehow? What if she hates my hair/pants/laugh?

Okay. These are obviously silly irrational anxieties, probably exacerbated by the stress of eating in an unfamiliar restaurant and the huge amount of food I ate last night. Seriously, this woman created a non-profit organization in order to help Zimbabwean AIDS orphans. "Nice" probably doesn't come close. And if she doesn't like me that much, fine - she's not the woman I work with directly. That person likes me.

As for the eating - I really, really need to let that go. I ate a lot last night. I ate even after I wasn't hungry anymore. I ate dessert. Okay. It's done, it's over with, and I don't have to beat myself up over it. There's nothing inherently wrong with eating a lot at a potluck with friends. Okay? Okay. Now stop thinking about it.

UPDATE: The lunch was fantastic. Holy crap. The woman is unbelievable - the work she's done, the stories she told. We came up with so many ideas! Once we get the new website together, I'll post more information about Zienzele.

If it makes you happy

I'm back up at the student-center coffeehouse, doing my distract-myself thing. Work wasn't, well, working, so I decided to eavesdrop on the conversation next to me. An instructor has been evaluating students' performance for the quarter. The class, if my ears do not deceive me, is called Career and Life Planning. It's for undecided freshmen and sophomores.

The girl he was talking to first seemed like a bit of a moron. He asked her what she wanted from life, and she said she wanted a job where she could make a lot of money. And she wanted to get married, giggle giggle giggle. "Obviously I want to marry a guy with a lot of money." Giggle giggle.

I rolled my eyes. Really? But then the instructor started in on her. He started talking about how men will take advantage of her, how men in cities are awful, and a story about his sister/cousin/friend-person was married to a rich guy, but he was abusive.

He gave her an F. An F. In CAREER AND LIFE PLANNING. JEEEBUS.

Now, clearly his grade was not based solely on her desire to marry a rich dude. With grade inflation as high as it is, the only way to get an F is to fail to turn in any assignments or physically assault the instructor. But still, he obviously thought what she wanted was wrong.

But is it? I firmly believe that you have a right to do what makes you happy, provided it doesn't harm anyone else. If marrying a wealthy person would make this girl happy, who am I or anyone else to say she's an idiot? She doesn't speak for all women; her desire to marry rich doesn't "set us back fifty years." I judged her and I shouldn't have. If the instructor wanted to take her to task for it, he should have asked her what her plan is. I know several women who have always wanted to be stay-at-home mothers. I used to think they were crazy until I stopped stomping my feminist boots long enough to listen. Marriage and kids do for them what a career and 401k do for other women; neither one is less of a woman for it. It's crappy that women can't choose one path or the other without being criticized - or unfairly judged by the nosy anthropologist next to them. Guilty as charged and sufficiently chastened.

What is normal eating?

No, really. I don't have a clue. I know my nutritionist gave me a short essay about it, but I'll be damned if I can remember what was on it. I remember at the end there was something about eating one more cookie because "they taste so good when they are fresh," but at that point I was vehemently NOT a cookie-eater, so I figured it didn't apply to me.

I can pretty much count on what I'm going to have to eat every day. I eat on a schedule. I really, really, really like Honey Bunches of Oats. I can be adventurous on special occasions - witness my trip to DC and my global eating adventure - but my daily intake is pretty uniform. Heavy on vegetables.

But is this normal? Is there one "normal" way of eating, even? I'm in college and witness to some very strange eating habits (not counting my own). I don't know if I ate normally before I developed anorexia and I have a good feeling I don't eat normally. Is it eating "intuitively?" Is it three squares a day? Does anybody really know?

Eeeky

I put on springtime pants today and they are ... snug. Around the waistband, which actually sits at my hips given the kind of pants these are.

Okay. This does not make me a bad person. It does not make me fat. I means that my body has changed shape since last ... when was the last time I wore these pants? May? It means that my hipbones are no longer the most prominent thing about my torso. It means that it is possible to have pants that actually require one to unbutton them before taking them off.

I decided to leave them on - they aren't cutting off circulation. I'm trying to get used to the idea that clothes can actually touch my body and it's not a bad thing.

Spring!

For the next few days, at least. A high of 74 degrees today? Sign me up!

I really enjoy spring, if only because I hate winter so much. Walking to class no longer requires the lengthy ritual of gathering hat, scarf, boots, coat. The price of strawberries comes down. I get to see the full range of fashions among my classmates - hipsters in floaty ragdoll dresses and gladiator sandals, jocks in shorts, sorority girls in really shorts. Tattoos peek out just like tulips. College Green is suddenly swamped with people and their impossibly small puppies (yesterday I saw two little Yorkies who together could have sat comfortably on my laptop). The hippie teachers take their classes outside - I don't know why, because attention spans drop like a rock. Perhaps for the benefit of passing tour groups?

It's a little funny, because I used to actually fear spring. I was deathly afraid of tornadoes, and it didn't help that ever March through elementary school, we started our weather unit learning about them. I would dread days that were warm and humid. I'd check weather.com's Thunderstorm Forecast - if we were in the "severe" region, I'd feel sick the rest of the day. I used to shake whenever we had severe weather. Once I had a session with Dr. M while we were under a tornado watch (back before the ED), and that was pretty much all we talked about.

Needless to say I don't do that anymore. The summer I lived alone, I think, was when I stopped being so irrationally scared of some things (some things, mind you, there are still plenty). There was no one around to listen to me or take care of me - I had to do it myself. So I kept the TV on, I watched the sky a bit, and I knew I could dive into the little hidey-hole under the stairs if I needed to. I didn't panic, I didn't shake, I didn't get sick. I just knew I had to take care of myself. More than that, I knew I could take care of myself.

Hmm. Maybe that's something to keep in mind.

This time around

Starting up the meds this time around hasn't been going so well. I get nauseated sometimes, and aside from the aforementioned weird-ass dreams, I feel like I'm in a fog. Maybe it's because the urgency and anxiety I was feeling was at such a high level that I feel empty now that it's gone. But it's not all the way gone, that's the thing.

I'm trying to stay positive. Or at least even.

In sleep

I had kind of an awful dream last night. My aunt had an eating disorder. I'm not entirely sure which aunt it was - my mother has six sisters - but clearly she'd been dealing with it for years and was in really horrible shape. Something happened - she had a seizure, I think - and she looked awful, black and blue and misshapen. I can't remember much beyond that, except urging my mother to get her on a feeding tube and explaining there are two different types, ones that go through the nose and ones that go right into your stomach.

Obviously the dream bothered me because I'm still thinking about it. Eating disorders are so common, and it kills me to think that so many other people have gone through what I did - and often their experiences are much, much worse. I hate the thought that anyone has gone through that, much less a family member or someone I love and care for. And I know that some of my relatives have experienced an eating disorder, and I know that some of my friends have. I wish there were more that I could do.

I'm probably creepier than I think

Once on the Metro Jim asked me what I was looking at. I sheepishly replied, "People."

I'm probably never going to be a research anthropologist. As much as I would love to, I'm never going to dive into a community, live as one of them, and do my damndest to understand the world as they do. There's not much money to be made that way, and I really can't stand the thought of being in academia forever.

But I'll always be a people-watcher. I'm up at the student center coffeehouse and there's so much going on around me - so many lives moving and shifting and changing. The sheer diversity - even within a relatively homogeneous population (mostly white college students in Ohio) is staggering. If I could, I'd sit down with each person here and ask them to tell me a story, to tell me about their lives, what they want and think and feel. I'd love that. And then I'd write a book about it.

As I always say, you're more interesting than you think you are.

"Did you drink plenty of water today?"

No, I never drink as much water as I should, but that didn't keep me from giving blood today! There's a pint of me in a red cooler somewhere that'll hopefully help someone. I don't know why I get so much out of giving blood, but I really do.

I am feeling ... a little bit better today. Not 100%. But better.

Adventures in research

During my studies of anthropology and medical anthropology, I've come across some weird stuff. Actually, I should say "things that appear strange to members of post-industrial, post-modern Western cultural systems." Anyway. Sometimes these things are humorous (intentionally or not). I present to you a series of limericks about syphilis, stumbled upon during research for People, Plagues, and Pestilences: The Anthropology of Infectious Disease.

From Webster's Dictionary online:

There was a young man of Back Bay,
Who thought syphilis just went away,
 And felt that a chancre,
 Was merely a canker,
Acquired in lascivious play.

Now first he got acne vulgaris,
The kind that is rampant in Paris,
 It covered his skin,
 From forehead to shin,
And now people ask where his hair is.

With symptoms increasing in number,
His aorta's in need of a plumber,
 His heart is cavorting,
 His wife is aborting,
And now he's acquired a gumma.

Consider his terrible plight,
His eyes won't react to the light,
 His hands are apraxic,
 His gait is ataxic,
He's developing gun-barrel sight.

His passions are strong, as before,
But his penis is flaccid, and sore,
 His wife now has tabes
 And sabre-shinned babies,
She's really worse off than a whore.

There are pains in his belly and knees,
His sphincters have gone by degrees,
 Paroxysmal incontinence,
 With all its concomitants,
Brings on quite unpredictable pees.

Though treated in every known way,
His spirochetes grow day by day,
 He's developed paresis,
 Converses with Jesus,
And thinks he's the Queen of the May.



The lesson here, kids?  Don't get the syph.  Because if you do, someday someone will write a nasty poem about you.

"Chill"

My boyfriend has been telling me to do that for two weeks. I thought about it yesterday and realized the last time I was really relaxed was lying on the couch in the hotel suite, watching What Not to Wear. We were too full from lunch to do anything else. Since then I can't remember a time when I just vegged, when I thought of everything and nothing. There's always something to do, or something to worry about, or some part of my body that needs attention and pinching.

Some people can relax easily and are good at dealing with anxiety. It's part of their makeup and who they are. Some people are also naturally gifted at basketball or painting. I am none of these things. I have to make an effort.

I've been trying to think of things to do to relax. One is to take a nap. Another is to hang out with some friends, but recently even that has been intruded upon by my body issues and anxiety. One is to watch a really good movie, one that sucks me in and doesn't allow anything else to intrude. I watched The Way We Were last night with my roommates, and aside from loving Robert Redford and thinking both of the main characters were kind of annoying, I didn't get much out of it.

Going for a walk is probably my favorite way to relax, but it's 27 degrees right now. Maybe if I talk about a walk it'll give you an idea. Jim and I used to go for walks in the spring. There's a biking/walking path that runs by the Hocking River (or "river," seeing as it's about 4 feet deep at most), and we'd head out there when it was starting to get dark. At first I got unnerved by the quiet, but eventually I learned - with some effort - just to relax and enjoy how everything felt and smelled. One night we passed a grassy hollow that was filled with fireflies - it was so beautiful. Those walks always made me feel better.

Well damn

I'm up at the student center, which I hoped would distract me from my body/anxiety. Fail on both counts.

On top of that, I realized the small spot of wear by my back pocket is now a gaping tear.

I was trying to relax about food. I was trying to actually eat a little more to kick-start my metabolism. And what happens? I bust out of my pants. Super duper.

And I suppose the red-striped panties were a bad choice.

More distraction

This morning I tried to write a well-reasoned, thoughtful post on the proposed-but-unlikely mileage tax that's being bandied about in the halls of Washington. Try as I might, I couldn't make myself seem reasonable. What rankled me most is that it seems to unfairly target people who live in rural areas - not everyone lives within five or ten miles of a grocery store or a mall. Before he started riding the bus, Dad drove 60 miles a day. Sarah and I used to make 56-mile round-trips to Newport, Kentucky when we wanted a night out. Once I realized that, I started to feel guilty about driving so much. Granted, this was before the days of $4/gallon gas, but damn, my carbon legacy is ginormous. I wanted to say that the project would be too expensive, too complicated, and too intrusive, but I couldn't do that without sounding like a whiny child. Which I'm starting to realize that I am. Dammit.

Food is for thinking

Sometimes I stumble across interesting things when I do research. Here's a quotation from Marguerite Yourcenar's historical novel, Memoirs of Hadrian:

Do not do me the injustice to take me for a mere ascetic; an operation which is performed two or three times a day, and the purpose of which is to sustain life, surely merits all our care. To eat a fruit is to welcome into oneself a fair living object; which is alien to us but is nourished and protected like is by the earth; it is to consume a sacrifice wherein we sustain ourselves at the expense of things. I have never bitten into a chunk of army bread without marveling that this coarse and heavy concoction can transform itself into blood and warmth, and perhaps into courage. Alas, why does my mind, even in its best days, never possess but a particle of the assimilative powers of the body?

Distraction: A Story

So I passed at least two portions of the PRAXIS exam - the math and the writing. As those were the two I about which I was most concerned, I feel good about the test overall.

I'm working on ways to distract myself from OCD-hamster-wheel thinking. I realized that blogging about how worried I am all the time might not be the best tack to take, so I'm going to try to switch it up a little bit. Since most people like a good love story, or any love story, I have decided to write about how Jim and I met and began dating.

August 2005: I'm relatively stable at an "acceptable" weight, so the M.D. Triumvirate and my mother have decided I'm college-ready. In celebration, I open a Facebook account and cautiously start looking for friends. This was back in the day when little whippersnappers (like my sisters - eek) couldn't get an account, so I had about five friends.

A week before the quarter starts I get a friend request. It's a guy named Jim, from Ohio University, and there are two people in the picture. One is a boy in a wheelchair who clearly has some kind of disability. The other looks around 35 and has a thick beard. So, Lisa, I think. If you refuse, you're potentially dissing a wheelchair-bound boy; if you accept, you're saying "Howdy!" to a middle-aged potential stalker. Damned if you do, damned if you don't - I accepted the friend request. The next day he sends me a very pleasant message, saying he's a sophomore, works in my dorm building and likes my taste in music. He said he hoped to see me on move-in day. At this point I still have no idea which person he is.

That's right, kids. I met my boyfriend of three years on Facebook.

Jim proved to be fully ambulatory on move-in day, and without the beard he looked much younger. He met my mother, even, though I don't think either of them remembers. He remembered my earrings, he said later.

October 2005: Now, this incident I don't really remember. I am walking back to my room through the boy's hallway (I lived at the corner) when I hear a clatter and muffled cursing. I peek through a doorway - there's Jim, cleaning up a broken espresso cup and its contents (yes, he had an espresso machine. Why didn't I date him sooner?). I go in and help him mop up. I have no real memory of this, but I like to think I did it.

November 2005: Jim invites me and another girl to watch The House of Sand and Fog with him in his room. The (long) movie ends. She leaves. We stay on his futon and talk. For an hour. Next week a photocopied article appears under my door. He thought it would interest me.

Later I would find out that Jim's friends had a pool going as to which freshman in the dorm Jim would manage to seduce. I was the dark horse behind Nice-Boobs-But-Attached and Hot-But-Batshit-Crazy. Go figure.

January 2006: By this time I have a group of girls (three of whom are now my roommates) to go to dinner with, and Jim has started to join us. I wasn't eating much, but that changed when one of my weigh-ins was lower than the agreed-upon threshold. Under penalty of going home, I grimly eat everything I can load onto a tray. Jim and the girls say nothing. I realize I love them.

February 2006: I am reading in my favorite hidey-hole on Valentine's Day. Two of my dinner-mates present me with a film canister. Inside is the first clue to a scavenger hunt that sends me around the dorm, picking up the pieces of a heart-shaped puzzle along the way. I catch on pretty quickly and I'm a little terrified: A BOY LIKES ME OMG WTF. That apparently showed on my face when I opened the door to his room. I think I said yes. I think. Jim says it was the most awkward moment of his life.

And thus, we became a couple. It's not Casablanca, but it works for me.

Drained spaghetti

Dr. M today was intense. I think she was angry, or aggravated - not at my "failure to reschedule" for two months, but how I'm completely unreasonable and apparently forgot everything I ever learned in therapy. It was not a fun 40 minutes. I was reminded yet again that I'm not at all objective about my body (yesiamyesiamyesiam), that it's ridiculous to want to look like a model. She softened up after a little while, but I still felt damn stupid. And all of this is rooted in my intense fears of the next few months - which I'm not sure if I buy. Then again, this wouldn't be the first time that something I thought I was "handling" well pops up in a completely different form.

Apparently I need to add some variety to my diet, too. She said that could be the basis for my weight gain. Actually, she pooh-poohed the idea that I'd gained much at all, and I almost climbed up on the scale to show her. Almost. I'm still scared to do that.

I got my RX renewed. At least that will help with the incessant OCD buzz.

Next appy is in two weeks. Maybe I won't get such a stern talking-to then.

Note to self, part 928

Lisa: You are never going to have the body you think you want. You are never going to be naturally thin, you are never going to be the girl who grew up eating cheeseburgers and potato chips and remained a statuesque beauty her entire life. You are never going to look like someone who struts down the runway in lacy lingere and angel wings. You are never going to look like that sixteen-year-old model you ranted about.

It's not really clear why you want to look like that. You know someone who looks like Giselle isn't inherently better than you. You know that having a six-pack says nothing about your worth as a person.

Still, you do want to look like that, and you don't; you never will. That's frustrating, and it hurts. So you have permission to be angry about it, you can be sad. You can feel disgusted with your thighs and your stomach.

But you can't do it forever, Lisa. It's okay to be angry, but it doesn't help you to be angry all the time. It doesn't help you to cringe at your reflection. You don't have to have an amazing self-image all the time, but you can't have an entirely negative one, either.

Accept the way you're feeling now. Talk to Dr. M about it. Then remember that you gained weight and the world did not implode. The people who loved you before, during, and after you quit eating still love you. Your mother will always think you are beautiful (granted, she kind of has to). Your much-cooler younger sisters like you. You have a beautiful smile and you always have (at least since the orthodontia). Your friends enjoy your company and your boyfriend does crazy things like book giant hotel suites because he loves you.

Okay? Okay. Now keep at that thesis.


Note: That's not me. I found it on Adventures in Stock Photography, which is actually kind of funny.

When it's this late (or this early)

At this time of the night I'm vulnerable. The anxieties creep up on me. I can't relax - my arms and back actually hurt because I've been so tense. All the thoughts about my body and wanting to lose weight come surging back at me. I'm so lonely and scared and worried about everything, and somehow it's so clear that being thinner will make all my problems go away. I know it won't, but this back and forth in my head is so goddamn awful.

This might be part of the problem

Last night, my roommate asked us to fill out a survey for her psych class. After we'd completed it, she told us what it's for - she and her group are conducting research on belief in a "just world." Their hypothesis is that people who believe that everyone gets what they deserve will be more likely to hold individuals responsible for bad things that happen to them (car accidents, lung cancer), even when there's not much evidence supporting that.

I realized my results were going to be a little odd. Bad things happen to people all the time and there's nothing they did to deserve it. Children are born into poverty and have deal with the effects their whole lives - not their fault. Their lives may not ever improve much, but that doesn't mean that they "deserve" what ultimately happens. People get cancer and Alzheimers and schizophrenia and diabetes, and it's not an indication that they're bad people. Planes go down. Boats sink. Cars turn left when they shouldn't. Bad things happen to people, but it's not their fault.

Me, however. I'm different. When something bad happens to me, it is my fault. If I get sick, it's because I didn't wash my hands enough or didn't get enough vitamin C. If I get cancer, it's because I didn't eat the "right" foods. If other people gain weight, it's because of metabolic or genetic issues outside of their control. If I gain weight, it's because I'm a fatass and eat too much. Did poorly on a test? Didn't study enough, even if I spent hours at the books. Anything bad that happens to me is partly, if not mostly or entirely, my own fault.

My roommate looked at me after I told her. "Goddamn, that is pessimistic," she said.

This might be something to tell Dr. M. I don't think this is normal.

See, I'm okay

This is me with my Dad's ancient orangutan puppet. I think he's leaving it to me in his will. He'd better.









I'm hanging in there.

Snow wonderful

Just kidding. February is more than half over. We need to be getting on toward spring, weather-wise.

I made myself come up to the student center coffeehouse. I could feel myself getting sucked into some depression-anxiety, so I thought if I came up here and did some work I'd be able to distract myself. So far, I've gotten a faceful of snow and I've "body-checked" my gut about six times in the last ten minutes. I still have a headache and I'm still stupidly worried.

I know I just have to hold on until Monday, but what if that doesn't work? Here I am, trying to distract myself like you're supposed to do when you're obsessing about something, and it's not doing much good. My brain is remarkably good at ignoring all sane and important things in favor of getting all hamster-on-a-wheel about nonsense.

I did it

I called Dr. M again. I left a message at her office at 6:30, and I didn't expect to hear back from her until tomorrow. The receptionist apparently could hear that I'd been crying and called Dr. M herself right away. Instead of being angry or disappointed or "I-told-you-so" like I feared she might, Dr. M called me from her car on her way to a meeting. What can I say, she's good people. We're going to talk on Monday, and hopefully I can get this OCD/anxiety monster licked.

Painting myself into a corner

I was diagnosed with OCD my freshman year of high school. I'd been a hand-washer as a kid and always had weird little rituals, but at that point irrational fears and constant anxiety were making me miserable. I saw the great and wonderful Dr. M for about six months and did much better afterwards.

Three years later I was back in Dr. M's office, albeit for a different reason. When she started me on Citalopram for ED-related depression, it had the almost-magical effect of quieting the "buzz" in my head that was the constant undercurrent of anxiety.

Two years on from that, I've taken myself off the Citalopram ... and now the OCD and anxiety are making a roaring comeback. I'm worried about things that don't make sense. It's hard to function or concentrate because of that buzz. Thing is, I've sort of taken myself off of Dr. M, too. I canceled a few appointments over the break because I was working, and I told her I'd call to set up my next appointment. And I haven't called. I was doing so well, I felt good about food and myself. And now I don't know what to do. I could go to the student health center, but they kind of blow when it comes to counseling. I could call Dr. M back, but the thought of admitting that I was overconfident makes my skin crawl. I could try to get a refill on my Citalopram if there are any left, but I'd have to deal with the side effect of nausea (which makes some of my anxieties worse). Not good.

In other news, I'm bloaty and headache-y and my jeans feel tight. And I'm worried all the time.

And now, of course, food

So by now you are aware that I had an intensely wonderful weekend bookended by intensely shitty travel experiences. But I didn't write about food!

Food and travel are never easy. The summer after I was diagnosed, I went to Florida with my family. I was horror-struck that I would be sitting immobile for eighteen hours (we drive to Florida), eating gas-station food and Wendy's the whole way down. I hid food, I threw food away, I fought to have as little on my plate as possible. My routine, my preciously guarded routine, was disassembled.

You can probably guess that this weekend was immeasurably better. Jim has been a big help to me as I've dealt with my recent stomach issues, and I promised him that I wouldn't restrict or freak out about food while I was in D.C. And I didn't. Vanilla-creme Pirouette cookies? Ate 'em. Rose champagne that tasted like jelly? Drank it. Crab quesadillas, cocktails, wine, cheese? Done, done, and done (I had my first appletini, guv'na!). On Saturday we went to Skewers for lunch, where we had an appetizer sampler, entrees, and desserts. I walked out of there like a pregnant bear, but I didn't berate myself for hours afterward. That night we were going to cook something - the suite had a kitchenette - but Whole Foods was full of Dupont-Circle hipsters doing the same thing, so we wandered to this little hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian place. The lamb dish was okay, but the bread you use to scoop it up - think a big, softy, pleasantly spongy crepe. And then on Sunday we went to breakfast. I ordered a bigass omelet and ate the whole thing, plus the toast on the side.

What's gotten into me? My guts are a little grumbly today - I'm making some baked tofu at the moment, but I'll probably save most of it for dinner and have some yogurt for lunch. I'm not hideously hungry... but maybe some broccoli will do me good. But I'm magnificently proud of the adventurous eating I did.

"If man were meant to fly, he would have been born with wings."

1. Do not fly Continental.

2. Do not fly into Newark. This terminal feels like a big sweaty buttcrack.

3. Do not ask someone how they like The Shack. Because this weird gleam will appear in his eyes and he will say "it's so good. It's even better than everyone says." And then when you're stuck on the runway for AN HOUR (see #1), he will give it to you and tell you to "pass it on." You will then read the back with a sinking feeling in your stomach. Then you will start to read and discover that it is the WORST BOOK EVER. I mean, there might be a plot there, but we're talking Stephanie-Meyers-level bad. And so far no body-glitter-sporting vampires have appeared to redeem its awfulness. How, how, HOW has this book been on the bestseller list for the last six months?

4. Don't leave D.C. There. That's the solution to all my problems right now.

On this day in history

Three years ago today, I woke up thinking, was that real? Did the boy down the hall really make up a Valentine's Day scavenger hunt that led to his door? Did he really ask me to go out with him? Does that sort of thing actually happen in the real world or did I dream that?

And then, oh my god, what did I SAY? Am I ... his girlfriend now? Wasn't I in the market for a long-haired guitarist out to save the world and write songs? This kid's got the hair, but he's an economics major. Well ... I guess I'll see how this goes ...

Two years ago, I woke up in a narrow dorm bunk, thinking Holy crap. I really did this. WE really did this - we made a relationship work for a whole year. How did I ever think this guy wasn't everything I wanted? He's written me poems, given me flowers. He's the most intelligent, most gentle person I've ever met, and even though his elbow is digging into my side I don't ever want to move.

A year ago I woke up in a real bed, thinking another year. I can't believe this. I'm a little scared - what's going to happen this summer? I'm going to Delaware, and he's going to graduate. I don't know what I'll do if I have to say goodbye to this man I love so much.

Today I woke up in the biggest damn bed ever, thinking I. Do. Not. Want. To Leave. Ever. I don't want to leave this man, this short-haired libertarian economist of my dreams, this man who took me to a beautiful suite, who took me to the zoo (orangutans!!!!), who makes me think and cry and laugh. I do not want to leave.

But I did get up, I did leave. And then I was the crazy crying girl on the Metro (and now I'm the crazy crying girl at the airport), because goddamn, I miss him so much.

Six more months. We can do this.

Planes, Metrorail Trains, and a hotel?

Well my dear readers, my airport situation turned into a big ol' clusterfuck not long after I posted. Originally, I was scheduled to fly to from Columbus to Detroit, then from Detroit to BWI, then take the MARC train into DC. So first the flight to Detroit gets waaaay delayed (4.5 hours), which would cause me to miss my connecting flight. So the friendly-as-she-could be counter woman got me to LaGuardia, which would then take me to Baltimore.

Thing is, I HAD to be in Baltimore before 9, because the last MARC train left at 9:30. So when my flight to LaGuardia kept getting delayed, and then we were stuck on the runway FOR AN HOUR, I was getting pretty damn nervous. Once we land in New York - and let me tell you, LaGuardia looks REALLY REALLY SMALL when you're flying over - I found out my connector to Baltimore had been canceled.

The counter man was sympathetic. "You can just take the shuttle to DC."
"Shuttle????!?!? I can't take a BUS to DC!!"
"No ... the shuttle is a plane. It goes right into Reagan."

... right. So, Reagan is the best airport ever, and I wound up getting to Jim's around 8.

Yesterday, he tells me surprise! He's not going to work... and then takes me to this absolutely fabulous, swank-ass hotel downtown where we have an effing enormous suite. The bathroom is bigger than my bedroom and the bed is like an SUV. I'm wearing a bathrobe typing at an executive desk. High-rollin' indeed.

Post 300!

Wowzers. When I started this blog I had no idea it would become such a ... well, I had no idea it would become the thing that it is. And the thing that it is ... well, it's been a place where I brain-puked a lot of thoughts and ideas, a place where I (hopefully) entertained some people with my comprehensive clumsiness (falls real and prat), a place where I wrote about labial surgery and a teenage model that's apparently popular with the Germans. It's also been a place where I've encountered some fantastic people. I used to make fun of my older sister for having online friends ... well we all have to eat our words sometimes. I've also written a lot about eating, as you may have noticed.

So thanks, y'all, for giving me a reason to stick with this so long. Expect another mushy post when we get to my one-year anniversary.

Speaking of anniversaries, Saturday is three years for me and Jim. I'm in the airport now waiting for a flight out to DC to visit. Long distancing is NO FUN and I'm so happy to get to see him.

Ladies and gentlemen, my boss

Well, soon-t0-be. Sort of.

Michelle Rhee: "Teaching - The Toughest Job"

Irony - it's not just a person from Tehran

One of my favorite blogs is Kath Eats Real Food. Kath is a 26-year-old studying to be a nutritionist, and her recipes focus on whole grains, vegetables, and lots (lots) of oatmeal. I admire her creativity and her seemingly boundless energy. She, like a lot of food bloggers, often gets free samples to review.

Occasionally, I leave a comment on her blog. A few days ago, I received an email from a representative of Country Bob's All Purpose Sauce company - Kath had recently reviewed a couple of their products. The rep offered to send me a free bottle of sauce if I'd review it on my own blog. Ponder, for a moment, the ironic beauty that is a recovering anorexic writing a food review. I wrote back saying sure, buddy, I write about eating disorder recovery, but if you want to send me some sauce I'm game.

**NOTE** Even though I'd read Kath's review and checked out the website ("Christ is our CEO"), Jim pointed out that this isn't the safest thing to do. I tend to have magical thinking that things like this won't end badly, but it's something I should keep in mind. And you should too. **END NOTE**

I didn't think anything would come of it, but lo and behold, Friday afternoon a box appeared on my doorstep. So then I had the dilemma of actually using the sauce in something. I don't eat a lot of meat, and I don't know if straight barbecue sauce on vegetables would be that tasty. So I decided to go back to Kath and try her baked tofu recipe. I was ambivalent about tofu, but that's because I only had it plain, mixed in with veggies or a salad.

Procedure: 1 Cut a block of extra-firm tofu into bite-size pieces. 2) Press between paper towels and plates for about 20 minutes. 3) Coat pieces in Country Bob's sauce. 4) Spread in an even layer in a baking dish well-coated with cooking spray. 5) Let the tofu soak up the sauce while the oven heats to 350. 6) Bake for 15-20 minutes until the outside of the tofu is chewy.

I mixed it in with some steamed green beans. The verdict? It wasn't bad at all. However, I'm not a sauce expert by any means, so I really can't say if it was Bob's sauce that made it tasty or just that I like baked tofu. I'll probably use the rest of the sauce, but I might try using something else with which to coat the tofu.

Anybody else have ideas for using up a bottle of barbecue sauce?

Fight, Flight, or Freakout?

In emergencies - immediate, in-your-face crises - I tend to do okay. When a situation arises that needs action, a solution, NOW, I can usually handle it.

If, however, the issue cannot be addressed by immediate action, or when I get bad news about a situation that will require (painful) action in the future, I don't do as well. In fact, I do really poorly. If something needs to be done in the next five seconds or minutes, I'm good. Five days or five weeks, though, and I'm a mess. In those cases I have time to go over all the horrible things that could happen - the number of people who could be inconvenienced or hurt, painful consequences, long-term effects. I have a very well-developed imagination when it comes to this kind of thing - in two minutes I can be a year ahead, mired in something really shitty you haven't even considered.

This is not a particularly productive way to be, seeing as the majority of crises I face are not the five-minute time frame ones. I've got to figure out a way to transform my response to immediate events to one that I can apply to those with longer time frames.

Like the city in Alaska?

I just saw Juno for the first time. There's something in my eye. Both of my eyes. Lots of somethings and now they're getting on my face.

Shit. I miss my boyfriend. I'm such a damn girl.

Awareness

Things I am currently aware of:

1. The gum in my mouth (Orbit Sweet Mint, as always)
2. My roommate and my friend talking a few feet away
3. The surprising comfort of my blue armchair
4. The brightness of my monitor against the dim room


And last, the overriding, dominating sensation: my stomach. How it folds over, how it touches my shirt, how it fills the space it's given like a gas. I know this feeling won't last forever, but it's just overwhelming.

What I Want

I know I can be thin. Been there, done that. I didn't get a ribbon or a pat on the head; I got amenorrhea. I didn't get a boyfriend or magically acquire the knowledge needed to succeed in college. Being thin didn't solve all my problems.

I know all these things. Yet these past few weeks I've been slipping back into that magical thinking: that being thin will make me happy. Nervous about the future? Scared of your thesis? Lose twenty pounds and everything will be great! Everyone will be so amazed and impressed with your self-control that they'll like you and respect you no matter how badly you fuck up everything else. Right? Right?

Not the case. Bad things can still happen to you when you're thin; in fact they happen quite frequently. You can't go out with your friends because you might eat something; you can't pay attention to a joke. You lose the hair on your head and gain it elsewhere (btw, that doesn't go away. I'll show you my shoulders sometime). Kids stare at you.

So I know I can be thin, yes. But I have to do so many unhealthy things to get there. I have to exercise at least two hours a day and eat a single serving of low-cal yogurt for lunch. Grumbly stomach? That's just all the fat and ugliness leaving your body.

My body is not naturally thin. I like to exercise, I like to work out and eat veggies, but my body will never look like a personal trainer's or a lingere model's. Fuck what all the TV talking heads and nutritionists say. Sure, I could get a six-pack and thighs like Michael Phelps. But to do that, I'll have to push my body to the extreme; I'll have to monitor everything I eat down to the gram. And it's not worth it. It's really, really not. Every hour I spend working out is an hour I'm not working on my thesis or spending time with people I care for. Every moment I spend thinking about food is a moment I could be thinking about something that makes me happy.

I know I can be thin. And there's a voice in me saying you don't mean all this, you know that being thin really IS what you need; it's so easy, too. If I had my boots on I'd squish it. It's not magical thinking; it's hateful and harmful thinking that I do not need.

Fun times

In order to become certified as a teacher in D.C., I have to take two tests, the Praxis I and the Praxis II.

The guidebooks offer seven- and eight-week plans to prepare.

I'm taking the Praxis I in less than three weeks and the Praxis II in a month. I have never taken an education class in my life.

Why, why, why did I think I could do this?

Caring (like a bear)

God, I tried to write an insightful post but it just comes out as whining. I care too much about my body - and why? If Girl A sees me on the street and is glad she's thinner than me, so what? If cute smoker-boy from yesterday thought, eh, too porky, does that matter? No, it doesn't. The only person my body matters to is me (well Jim, too, but let's leave that for now).

But my body matters to me, that's the problem. Others' bodies don't mean a thing. My body, on the other hand, reflects my worth. I might be smart, I might be friendly and kind, but I'm just not good enough. Being thin makes me just a little bit better - and why should you ever stop trying to improve?

This recent weight gain has been profoundly mindfucking. I had just started to really loosen up - and by really loosen up, I mean have a teeny brownie when my roommates made them, or have ciders and fruity drinks when I went out with my friends. My meals still hadn't changed much - lots of veggies, nothing fried or buttery, no pasta and hardly any bread. And yet I still gained. I had a general sense of how many calories I was taking in, and it was less than those online calculators said I needed. And I still gained. Does that mean that the calculators are wrong, the nutritionists are wrong, everybody is wrong?

And why, why, why do I care so much? There's nothing inherently wrong with gaining weight. There's nothing wrong with having a brownie or cider. I could change the way I feel about this. I could pull myself up by my bootstraps and just say, stoppit, get over it, no one gives a damn but you. If only it were that easy. I feel shitty for gaining weight and I feel shitty for feeling shitty about it. I can't win. Shit.

Futurism

The other day I was putting dishes away when I was struck by the thought that in six months, I'll be putting dishes away my own apartment. It seems like it's more "mine" if I'm only sharing it with Jim. I'll come in and close the door and say hello to Jim, if he made it home before me (home!). I'll ask him about his day and tell him about mine, which will have been spent teaching/chasing after small children because yes, I am doing Teach For America.

The process isn't going to be easy. There are three scary tests I need to take this month and another in March. I still have to finish this thesis. Then there will be five sweaty weeks in Philadelphia, where I'll actually teach, make lesson plans, and try to figure out small people's minds. I'll be moving around - I hate packing and moving. But then after all of this I'll have a job, a life and an apartment with Jim. Even knowing that it won't all be skittles and rainbows only dampens my excitement a little bit.

Awkward

I love people, so I tend to look at everyone around me when I'm walking in town. Occasionally I make eye contact; when I do, I usually smile. I realize I will have to change this when I move to DC or risk being seen as insane or threatening.

Today I glanced at one of the requisite smokers outside my class building. He smiled. I looked away, and back - he was still smiling. He wasn't an unattractive guy, either (sorry, Jim, I notice these things).

Oh crap, I've got something on my face, I think. Once I get inside I immediately head for the bathroom and check. Right cheek, left cheek - nothing. Teeth - clear. No mascara smudges. Was he just looking ... at me?

I have always done this. I either don't even notice that someone is flirting with me, or I think I've got mustard on my shirt or something in my teeth. If you're going to flirt with me, you have to be really, really obvious - or really really bad. I remember one occasion involving a young man who looked like he'd just stepped out of a Boy Meets World episode, one with really bad sweaters. I mean, this guy was a worse flirt than I am, and finally I leaned over to Jim - this was before we were even dating - and whispered "help me, please."

For someone so observant, I'm awfully oblivious when it comes to people paying attention to me.

Ouch

Being the wizard with icing that I am, I made some of these little guys for an early groundhog's day party:



Instead of sticking the almond joy down in the cupcake, i cut it in half and set it on an icing-topped cookie. Then I surrounded it with green-tinted coconut "grass." Adorable - and effing time-consuming. I made 16 of them in all.

My roommate was nice enough to drive me to the apartment. However, I didn't make it three steps before I hit a patch of ice and fell, really really fucking hard, on my knees. My cookies - my adorable, wonderful, took-me-forever cookies - were mostly on the ground, a few still on the platter. I don't know what I cried more for - the pain in my knees or the cookie loss.

So now my knees are swollen and hurt immensely when I sit, stand, or navigate stairs. It's finally warming up and going to the gym would be a very bad idea. But oh, I really really fucking want to. I ate a lot and drank a decent amount of fruity things last night, and I"m catching myself thinking, oh, the elliptical wouldn't hurt, it's so low-impact ... but I know that I shouldn't go.

How do you guys deal with the I-can't-exercise anxiety? When I was first starting recovery I dealt with it by hating my mother, but that's neither healthy nor rational.

Hudda wha?

I feel that there is profound meaning in the fact that this WTF article was the very first "top story" on the Yahoo news feed. "Must you diet on Super Bowl Sunday?" it asks. "What's the about an occasional day of eating yourself into oblivion?"

Cute. The reasons not to "pig out" include developing a tendency to do it again or more frequently (more "special occasions) and feeling crappy the next day. So why not make healthy substitutions, like swapping the seven-layer dip for salsa and baked chips? Um, I don't know, because the seven-layer dip is what you WANT? Salsa cannot compare to seven-layer dip. I'm not a huge fan of tac0-layer-salad concoctions myself, but my sister is and God help you if you try to swap it out with salsa.

And at the end of this rather disjointed article, the author states that all the nutritionists she spoke with said that "one day of 'bad' eating will not a life ruin." Well JEEZUS, thank goodness for that!

Diagnosis

SSS: Schizoid Stomach Syndrome.

Pow pow, I'm trigger-happy

I bought something online. It's clothing of a variety that is very, very risky to purchase without trying it on. The problem's not with the item, it fits decently enough.

The problem is the catalog that came with it. I will never, never, EVER look like these women. Rationally I know that even they don't look like that, there's enough airbrushing here to make Joan Rivers attractive. But I still want to. Which then begs the real question - why? Why do I want to look like these women? Sure, they're conventionally attractive according to Western standards. "Hittable," if you will. Curves indicating that you'd be able to maximize your reproductive potential and ensure your genes make it a little longer in the pool.

But I"m never going to have that stomach. WHAT is my issue with stomachs? Is it some creepy subconscious fetish I have? Okay, you couldn't iron a shirt on my abdomen (... ouch). BFD. That doesn't mean my stomach is ugly or repulsive. Just ... don't leave the lights on.

Gaaah stoppit. There's nothing wrong with me, unless you think that these models are the way women are supposed to look. In that case yes, there's plenty wrong with me. But that's not true.

So why, why, why can't I quit pinching my stomach and just let it go? I keep beating myself up over this and it's such a goddamn waste of energy.

Oh hey guess what?

MY SISTER IS GOING TO FUCKING BE ON FUCKING JEOPARDY!



Crap. She's officially cooler than I am. I got cut after my College Jeopardy audition.


TEAM SARAH FTW!

Bored

Snow days, as a kid, were wonderful things. Now that I'm in college ... not so much. My professor was out of town Monday, and today the whole university's canceled. There's nowhere, really, to go - it's too icy to drive or walk, the library is closed, and so is the gym. What's a girl to do except ... work? And watch a lot of a certain embarrassing show while I do.

And I hate how you can get hungry even when you're sitting on your ass doing nothing. Can my body just hang onto my oatmeal until four or so?

Ahhh babies

Gah! Eight babies!

But it's like a built-in rock band.

Getting a grip

For someone who was just accepted into a highly competitive service program (that's right, you Ivy-Leaguers, I go to PUBLIC SCHOOL), I have certainly been treating myself like shit. Mentally, that is.

Okay. So we don't know why, exactly, my stomach is looking a little bulbous. Or my hips and thighs, for that matter. I'll admit to slacking on my ab exercises lately, and maybe I'm adding too much apple butter to my oatmeal and having too many crackers between meals. Whatever. We've established that this is a scary thing.

Frustrating as it is, I have to recognize that trying to "get control" is always dangerous for me. I don't like it, but I'm going to try to accept it. And I am going to try the food journal for a couple of week. If it makes me antsy or crazy, I'll confess to my sister and she'll whup some sense into me. Or I'll confess it here and y'all will do that.

I keep feeling like I have to explain myself. I don't want this to be a relapse. I've FINALLY got things at least a little together and I don't want to mess that up. I want to figure out why my body suddenly seems to be a stranger, and if there's anything I can do to get back in touch with it.

Confused

I did not drastically change my diet or exercise habits in the past three weeks. According to many of the aforementioned calculators, I'm not even eating enough calories to maintain my weight, much less gain.

SO WHY THE FUCK HAVE I GAINED?

Damnit, I do not want to throw another tantrum. But I'm not happy with my body at all, and I can't tell if I really need to lose weight or this is just stupid, stupid eating disorder coupled with stress.

I can try to think about this rationally. If you don't like the way you look and feel, change it. Eat less, exercise more. Right? But I'll always second-guess myself, as will the people around me. Am I really too heavy, or do I just think I am? I don't want to be afraid of losing weight. I want to just be able to get in shape and leave it at that.

Someone on TV today mentioned swimsuit season. Fuck me.

Uhhh ...

On a good day, I get around sixty hits to my blog. Most days it's less than 50.

So ... does anyone want to explain this or did StatCounter break?





UPDATE: So I um, sometimes rant about things. In July I ranted about the highly erotic pictures of just-turned-seventeen Toni Garrn. Apparently they were sexay enough to get linked to Google Images. And apparently that someone is in Germany. Grüß dich, y'all, hope you stick around.

Tantrum? At 22?

Yes, that was a tantrum I threw in my last post. It took me a long walk and some surprisingly warm fresh air to get over it. My body, blasted everloving thing it is, is not naturally flat-bellied. So instead of taking a deep breath and realizing THAT IS OKAY, I got angry and frustrated that my body did not do what I wanted. I want washboard abs and I want them now, dammit! ("Don't caaare how, I want it nooooooow")

Clearly, I have stomach issues. I'm rectangle-shaped, like my mother. I also tend to gain weight first in my abdomen, which is part anorexia-related and part genetic. There's nothing I can do about that. After a point, only excessive exercise and restricting can get you beyond where those little helixes say you're going to be (yes folks, I'm a college student. That's book-lernin talk, there).

Comparing myself to others has rarely done me any good. So I'm going to make a renewed effort NOT TO DO IT. It only leads me to loathe my body, and that's not pleasant for anyone, least of all my dear readers.

And instead of talking myself out of the wine-and-cheese birthday party I'm invited to, I'm going to put on my nice clothes and my wonderful boots and I'm going to go and enjoy the shit out of it.

Frustrated

I can't stop thinking about my stomach. With a million other important things to be thinking about, I keep pinching and smushing every five minutes or so. Eating a normal-sized meal makes me globby.

My headspace is not so good right now. It's been going on for a while - I managed to transfer it to TFA stuff - but I can't stop berating myself. It's not that I want to restrict - it's that I know I can't restrict. All that willpower? All that stuff that made me so good and wonderful? Gone. Nada. Bake a pan of brownies and I'll eat one. Having a cider? Thanks, I'll have one too. And I know, I know, I know I shouldn't, but I compare myself to other people all the time. When other people eat normally, they don't puff out. Me, I even come close to a normal diet and I gain weight uncontrollably.

Arrgghgh. The only word I can think of to describe this is toxic, as melodramatic as that sounds. I can't fucking sit in a desk chair without feeling, to use a homegrown colloquialism, "like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag." Charming, I know, but it fits.

I finally had my head and my body synched up, and now my head is backsliding while my body, oblivious, continues gaining. I can't wait for the fucking day someone says "You? You were anorexic?" with that goddamn tone that very few people know and no one loves.

Just the facts, ma'am, part II

Fact: You gained two pounds.

Fact: You are at your heaviest weight in three years.

Fact: This gives you the screaming willies.

Fact: You are still 25 pounds lighter than you were when you decided to start that delightful "diet."

Fact: You have another 35 pounds to go before your BMI moves from the yellow ("smile, you're healthy") to the orange ("DANGER DANGER OVERWEIGHT"). Not that BMI means jack.* Oh, and did you notice that you were never overweight to begin with?????

Fact: You've been working out a lot. You might have some MUSCLE that you didn't have before.

Completely subjective suggestion: chuck your damn scale.








*Did anybody notice how narrow the "overweight" category is and how wide the "obese" category is on those charts? I have a 40-pound range in which I'm "healthy," but only 30 pounds between "overweight" and "obese."

Just the facts, ma'am

Fact: I have been offered a spot in the 2009 Teach for America Corps. I've been assigned to early childhood through third-grade in the Washington, D.C. metro area.

Fact: I have to accept or decline the offer by February 2nd.

Fact: I have to attend a summer institute at George Mason University wherein they will cram my head full of the considerable knowledge it requires to be a teacher.

Fact: In order to stay employed for my two years, I am required to get a masters in education from George Mason during that time. Fact: tuition, even with a 50% discount, is $9,500 for two years.

Fact: it is "very highly likely" that I will receive an Americorps grant that will cover the cost of my masters.

Oh, but then there are all these nebulous non-fact things to consider. I don't know if I'll even be good at teaching or like it. There are quality-of-life issues - working 8-4, plus class, plus prep for each day - would I have time to enjoy my life in D.C.? On the plus size, having a master's in education would be something good to have in my hand. And I'll be teaching kids to read. I have the chance to give kids a semblance of the opportunities I had growing up. On a level completely separate and alone, that is just plain cool.

Bah!

8:41 AM

Some people have been waiting for this day for a long time. For some people, this is a day that marks sweeping change and the beginning of a new era. For some people, today is a marvelous reason to go to a bar on a Tuesday.

I have been waiting for this day, too, but only since December 11. Today I find out whether or not I've been accepted to Teach for America. As I've said previously, I probably didn't get in. But I just want to know.

Today is also the sixth consecutive day that has been completely without any academic commitments. I was actually looking forward to my thesis meeting tonight, but something urgent came up in the department (that's okay, I just wrote 22 pages this weekend, but that's okay).

Oh, Gmail tab. How you torture me.

Also, it's six degrees. I really should exercise, though. I'm afraid this means ... the dreaded Denise Austin workout DVD. Ugghhh. I'll tell you what you can do with that potato, missy.

8:51 AM
Okay, now it's FOUR DEGREES.

Also - all junk mail is hereby forbidden. Nada mas. Spam filter, do your thing.


9:48 AM
Five degrees.
WTF there are two MILLION people at the inauguration. Seriously? Is there enough oxygen to go around?

11:13 AM
I got a teaser email from the Ohio TFA recruiter, reminding me that "we find out today!" No shit, Sherlock.

The worst thing about being at the inauguration would be the ridiculous lack of porta-potties. There's something like 1 for every 300 people. My brain doesn't even want to process that.

11:53 AM
If you haven't worked with documents from the nineteenth and eighteenth centuries, you might not know that the letter "s" was often written as "f." Why, I have no clue, other than perhaps to make writings even less decipherable. But sometimes it's funny, like when a midwifery text mentions that a woman's newborn twins "fuck freely."

Oh yeah still haven't heard. It's all the way up to 15 degrees, though.

1:53 PM
I'm guilty of extreme lack of respect for a very important ceremony. Yes, it was a nice speech, but let's give the man a few months so he can really show us his mettle, okay?

And goddammit TFA, step away from the inane CNN broadcast and call or email or whatever you're going to do.

3:04 PM

I'm in.
I got placed in D.C.
Pre-K through 3rd grade.
I have to decide by February 2nd.

This is not how I expected to feel.

Discomforted

As a member of Ohio University's venerable (so tell me) Honors College,* I sometimes get corralled into various activities. Usually I resist, but yesterday was Interview Day for prospective applicants. I was super-excited because we had three potential students (last year the anthro program didn't have ANY), so I agreed to attend a meet-and-greet lunch with the applicants and their parents.

The food was actually pretty decent - there was black bean soup that hit the (previously very cold) spot. Current students were already seated when the applicants and their parents came in. I scooted my chair to the right to make room for an applicant's mother. "Do you have enough room?" I asked.

"I don't know, I might grow here, I've got a big plate," she said, settling in. I turned to see one of the thinnest adult women I've ever encountered. The "big plate" was mostly vegetables (granted, mine was too, but I'm not that thin anymore). I immediately regretted the dollop of sour cream I'd added to my soup. Why? I'm in recovery, and this kind of thing happens.

I tried not to make any assumptions and focused on my own plate, though I did notice she tended to pick things apart and ate very slowly - been there, done that. I put my energy into answering her and her daughter's questions. The applicant seemed really bright, and given her interest in human rights, she'd be a good fit with our faculty.

Then her mom asked about the fitness center. E, the girl, rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Oh, come on, you might start exercising!" her mother said.

A little bit later E asked about vegetarian food options. The dining halls are okay, I said, but this is hippie college - there are a ton of vegetarian places around Athens, including a couple Middle Eastern and Indian places. E was happy to hear that, but said, "ohh, I'm going to gain so much weight!"

"Maybe you will start exercising then!" her mother said.

I shook my head. "No, you'll be fine," I said. "The freshman fifteen is a myth. None of my friends or anyone I knew really gained any weight." Except me, but I doubt your diet will include as much BoostPlus as mine did. I didn't look at her mom when I said this.

Did I say the right thing? I mean, for God's sake, I don't even know if the woman had an eating disorder. Some people are just really, really thin. I probably read too much into it and it was my own fault that I was uncomfortable.




*Other illustrious graduates of the Honors College include Piper Perabo (of Beverly Hills Chihuahua and Coyote Ugly fame) and, more importantly, Jessica Hagy of Indexed.

I've been thinking

I've also been unsuccessfully trying to flush my toilet every 20 minutes or so. But that's not why I'm writing.

I started Pratfalls mainly to keep Jim company in his blogging endeavor (his blog, Beer and Wisdom, is still on my blogroll. I like the economics of love post). Ironically, he now only blogs for work, and I'm the one at 272 posts since May. I didn't expect it to be so fun. I've always kept journals, but this is far different - instead of hiding it under my underwear in a dresser drawer, I put this out on the Great Big Interweb. And it's still fun. Maybe it's some repressed exhibitionism. Getting comments is ridiculously gratifying.

I also never expected to find some amazing fellow bloggers. I'd been wary of all eating-disorder-related internet items after foolishly checking out some pro-anorexia blogs for a class. Good idea there, sparky. I didn't know that there were people out there like me, who were trying to get better, to recover, and who were willing to share their stories and experiences and hard-earned lessons. The people I've encountered are brave, tough, sometimes vulnerable, and honest about this shitty thing that came into our lives and doesn't want to let go. When someone succeeds, we cheer; when someone struggles, we offer what support we can in a few typed words.

And dammit, I'm proud of us. Of the honesty and the courage you all show. It seems weird, I know, because I've never met any of you in person. But internet friendships are no longer the shady, potentially creepy thing they used to be, and friendships in general are what we make them.

So thank you, everybody. You're all doing a very good thing.

*$(%& Cold

I did not go to the gym today. This was planned for a couple of reasons - my back and calves are really sore, and it's NEGATIVE TWO DEGREES. Also I was up until two last night trying to finish a book.

Also, my toilet won't flush - the tank is empty. My handy-dandy father said the supply line is frozen, but all the other water sources in the apartment are functional. Apparently the second floor is just REALLY lucky.

I'm sort of afraid that if I take a shower I'll run out of water halfway through. Yes, I admit that it is 9:30 and I have not showered. I am on the ball today.

Things for which I am grateful

I have bitched entirely too much over the past few days, so I will try to ameliorate this by writing a list of things for which I'm thankful. Some people do this every day, but I'm too lazy.

1. That I did not choose a college in Minnesota or Wisconsin or some map dot in North Dakota. Because, seriously, that is just too damn cold.

2. The soft, pretty purple-blue wrap my roommate gave me for Christmas. It's warm and she told me she didn't even mind if I got frozen snot on it.

3. Spaghetti squash, a poached egg, and parmesan cheese. Add some salt and pepper and you're in a good place. Plus the egg yolk has lots of iron.

4. For some reason, my room is the warmest in the house.

5. I'm writing this on the most advanced piece of technology I've ever owned. I love my computer like a child.

6. Baby gorillas, like this little fella. And that I'll get to see him next month when I go to D.C.

7. Going to D.C. next month counts double, because it's three years for Jim and me.

One more thing:
8. Tomorrow is another day.

Blood donor FAIL

"Low iron? What do you mean? I haven't had a problem with that since I was little, and a few Flintstones vitamins cleared it right up."

"Are you on your period?"

"... yes."

Grr. Two painful finger pricks (why do those motherfuckers hurt so bad) and nothing to show for it. I admit that I give blood for two reasons: 1) it helps people and 2) it makes me feel good about myself. Yeah, it's selfish, but I get my happiness where I can. Even the Red Cross van.

And I didn't even feel tired until they told me I have low iron. After that I was pooped.

Note to self, part 858

1. You have a belly.

2. That is okay.



UPDATE - From a Gchat:
Jim : yay! belly!

:)

Swinging through the gates

I met with a career counselor today. It wasn't earth-shatteringly helpful, but we did go over some of the finer points of my resume and discuss timelines for applying. I was afraid I'd be too early, but she said probably not - it doesn't hurt to get a head start, in any case.

So now I just need to do it. Insert Nike swoosh here.

At this point my self-doubt rears its endearingly ugly head. I've worked, sure. I've held jobs, I've done research. BFD. And now I have to convince someone that they should pay me inordinate amounts of money for my services. I don't even know if my services are worthwhile.

I'm pretty sure my family and friends believe in me. A very needy part of me wants to quererously ask everyone I know if they do, but I really need to get over that. I realized, though, that their support is important, but even more important is that I believe in myself. If I want someone to hire me on the basis of merits (what merits?), I have to believe that those merits exist.

I need to get over that. Deep breath. Pick up my suitcases and go swinging through the imposing gates of the VonTrapp mansion singing at the top of my voice. Or a D.C.-appropriate alternative. I've got to prove to all those people who believe in me that I can do this - and prove it to myself, too.

Kinship

Mental illnesses have a pretty hefty genetic component, so it's not uncommon for them to run in families (I can't quote studies, but this blog and this blog probably can). Knowing that is one thing, facing it is another.

A couple of years ago my mother told me my cousin was starting to have problems with food. She was about sixteen at the time, high-achieving, a phenomenal cross-country runner. I nearly started crying - we were in public - because I hated to think of anyone, much less someone I knew and cared for, fighting the same thing I was.

Today, at Sunday dinner at my grandparents', my aunt started talking about the latest challenge they'd been thrown. My cousin's nutritionist had told her she has a "large frame," because when she tries to circle her wrist with the pinky and thumb of the opposite hand, they don't touch. Frankly, that makes me question the nutritionist's credentials; in any case, my cousin does not have a large frame. She gave her a goal weight based on that oh-so-scientific measure, and understandably my cousin is freaking out. The words seemed to pour out of my aunt, and she teared up.

Mom and I told her about some of my own experiences, but I'm not sure if they'd be of any help. Mental illnesses can share the same name, but they're expressed in so many different ways. I don't know if I should do anything else. Would it be crossing a line? I imagine the last thing my cousin wants is one more person asking her about the issue. And lord knows I'm not perfect (re the food-journal and consistent body-hatred issue). At the same time, I've come a hell of a long way - maybe some of the keys that fit my locks might fit hers, too.

So I don't know. Any suggestions?

IT'S HERE

I was a ball of worries a few hours ago (and they still need to be resolved, I'm working on it), but I am tapping on my new, muy rapido, wonderful beautiful laptop. My mood is significantly improved.

This is my confession

I swear, waiting for the FedEx guy is more involving than waiting for Santa. Granted, Santa never brought me so desperately desired an object. But again, that's not why I'm writing.

At the turn of the year I started keeping a food journal. Again. I tried to convince myself that I was just trying to be healthy, more aware of what I'm eating, and to break the mindless munching habit I'd started at home. That's sort of true, but the mechanism for breaking that habit was guilt and fear - you eat that cracker and you'll have to write it down! That extra spoonful of yogurt counts, young lady.

After a somewhat painful conversation with Jim (thanks again), I stuck the journal under my desk. But that talk revealed another thing - I have no idea how many calories my body actually needs. I have trouble trusting formulas where x + y(4.55/p) = your daily caloric/fat/carbohydrate/protein needs. The weight I gained over the summer and fall didn't come from me purposefully measuring out my calories and making sure I took in a surplus. Hell, I gained weight while exercising more regularly than I had in a long time. I gained weight from loosening up a little, from the occasional handful of wheat thins, and probably partly from my body's transition from adolescence to more fully-grown adulthood. Over the winter break, I let myself enjoy holiday food because, I thought, it'll be gone by January and I'll get back to "normal." Which, according to one of those suspect formulas, is actually not enough.

I know it takes time for your brain to catch up with your body. I'm just appalled that I can be sailing along, thinking I'm doing so well, and then have a bunch of setbacks slapped in my face. I'm constantly doing "body checks" on my belly. I look in the mirror and there's too much ... dimension. I don't even want to get into the deeper psychological implications of that last statement. I just want to like the body I see in the mirror, and right now that's hard.

Surprise fail

I missed the FedEx guy* and thus my computer by TEN MINUTES. Grr. But that's not the fail I'm talking about.

Today I got a cafe au lait to accompany me while I read at the student center. While I was in the (ever interminable) line, a petite woman with red hair and sparkly blue eyes approached me. "Lisa!" she cried.

It showed on my face - shit, who are you? And then it clicked. She and I had shared an office for a couple of years, doing research for my advisor. I hadn't seen her since last spring, right before she had weight-loss surgery. Even with my own experiences with rapid body change, I was blown away. She's so short and now slight that she looks fourteen.

I'm sure my surprise was obvious, at least for the first minute of our conversation. If she noticed she ignored it, chatting about another co-worker and my new hat. I managed to participate normally, but in my head I was still floored. No one I've known closely has undergone that kind of surgery, and somehow the before-and-after images you see on TV don't prepare you for the change when you see it in a friend.

There's a lot of controversy about weight-loss surgery - it's a scam, it's unhealthy; I've even heard it compared to a lobotomy. Sometimes it's still considered "cheating." Regardless, it's a complicated, intimately personal decision. We'd talked about it a little during our time together. She told me how she's always been heavy; how nothing - even medically-supervised diets - had worked. Her knees and back always hurt. Doctors never believed her about her diet and exercise - "I bet you'd lose weight if we locked you in a closet," one said. We commiserated about how, when your body is a tidge to the left or right of normal, it becomes public property and a topic of strangers' (sometimes brutal) comments. I know, however, that my experiences were different - I'd been too thin for a relatively short time, and even to the point of illness, being thin is valorized. Being large, in a lot of ways, is much worse.

I feel awful that I couldn't conceal my surprise better - I know how painful it can be. I didn't actually talk about how much she's changed; I'm pretty sure she knows. Even after having an unstable body image for so long, I can't imagine how hard it must be for her to relearn her body in such a drastic way. Next time I see her I'll apologize, and see if she wants to talk about it.




*I'm not being sexist; I called and it actually is a delivery guy.

Further proof that I am a bad person

Ohio University's student recreation program has decided to hold a Biggest Loser-esque program. The program starts with a "body composition and physical fitness test," which I know from experience will include calipers and big marker x's on your thighs and belly. There will also be individual and team challenges throughout the quarter. Team members keep track of how often they work out to gain points and can also increase their scores by attending weekly seminars about nutrition and fitness. The word "competition" doesn't appear anywhere in the information, but prizes will be given to those who lose the greatest percentage of body fat as well as the "winning team."

I get that I'm more sensitive to this than most. I know that The Biggest Loser is probably not the horrible social commentary I sometimes think it is. But I feel very strongly that competing to lose weight or body fat is not a good idea.

Why am I a bad person, you ask? Because I'm tempted to register.

No, not because I'm begging for a relapse. I just want to see what they'd do with me. It would be interesting - I don't "look anorexic" anymore. My weight is at a healthy place and my BMI is finally "normal" (though BMI is crap). I wonder if, during the initial assessment, they ask if you've had a history of eating disorders. I wonder if they'd be visibly surprised or not. I wonder what my body fat percentage is.

I'm feeling ornery enough to do it. Thing is, I don't want to look like I'm mocking overweight people. Getting healthy is wonderful, so I don't want to appear derisive of people who are genuinely trying to do so. It's the idea that weight loss and fitness are competitive sports that bothers me.

The wintry mix, in Ohio, falls mainly on my thesis

After weeks of anxiety and agonizing over my thesis, I was all set up to go to east-central Ohio today to do some interviews (not all anthropologists get to go to the glamorous places). Only this morning east-central Ohio was completely snookered with delightful wintry mix. The pink they use to illustrate that on radar pictures is such a puke-inducing color. Thankfully I was able to switch the in-person interviews to phone interviews at the last minute, and all went as smoothly as can be expected.

In other news, I purchased a new computer last night (sort of. The details are messy). OF COURSE, my previously malfunctioning computer updated and shut off like it's supposed to, and now Word is working again. I guess it's still a good thing; the soon-t0-arrive one is an Inspiron 1525 laptop with a Pentium Dual Core processor and Microsoft 2008 upgrade. I got it from the Dell Outlet, which has "previously ordered new" systems - the person who ordered it canceled the shipment. They have the same 1-year warranty that new laptops get. It was $589 before shipping and taxes, which is considerably less than it would have been if I'd used their "customize your system" feature.

On my way into the library I spotted a new book on eating disorders. I considered checking it out ... to read in the gym. Bad, subversive Lisa.

Cynicism, Ohio

It's entirely likely that I am a horrible person. Yesterday I read about Barack Obama's plan to hold a "neighborhood ball." I'm sorry, but it reminded me very much of a feudal lord opening up his castle walls for a day to let the peasant farmers gambol about amongst their betters. Am I completely missing the message of inclusiveness and unity? Absolutely. Is a free party really the best thing to do with funds? That's a little doubtful. He's preaching to the choir - anyone who attends is already supportive. Will any of Washington's less-enamored residents attend? No. I'm dating one, and I know.

Okay, I'm missing the point. But tell me that wouldn't be a kickass political cartoon. Tell me.

Note to self, part 857

Effective immediately, you are to stop failing at life. Seriously. Get your act together. Suck it up, soldier. Tough titties. Put on your big-girl panties and get on that ball and stay there. You're twenty-two years old and you are a dime a dozen, so it's going to take every ounce you have to offer to get you where you want to be.

Not. Fair.

My father wiped my computer right before the end of the quarter. Removed every program and system, leaving behind an empty shell. Then he re-loaded windows and gave it back to me, a blank slate.

I used it for two days before going home for the break. It sat, silent and undisturbed, for six weeks.

It is still malfunctioning. The computer that was completely emptied and untouched for six weeks does not work. I can't use any of my USB ports, and programs frequently stop responding. It won't shut down - I have to manually turn it off, which I know is terrible for the system.

Classes are starting again and I am anxious. I do not need this.

Temporary

My things are (mostly) packed. I'm heading back to Athens this afternoon; classes start up again Monday.

I want to go back - I love anthropology and I seriously want to graduate. I like having my own room. I like being able to walk to a place where I can meet friends.

So why is it suddenly so hard to leave?

And even when I do go back, I know it's only for about six more months. Part of me is going to be two steps ahead, looking forward to what's coming next.

When will my life stop feeling temporary?

The expected and the unexpected

I have an uncle named Bubba, and it's a pretty accurate moniker. Okay, his real name is John, but no one calls him that except his wife. This is a man who processes (what a lovely euphemism) deer in my grandparents' side yard - and they live on Main Street. I have seen him eat a piece of ham after a dog got a taste of it. He wears camo baseball caps.

And yesterday he told my grandmother that I'm looking better. Color me flabbergasted.

Even armed with that knowledge, I've felt so flabby and gross today. I let go and enjoyed the holidays, and now it seems monstrously obvious. Love handles you could rest a book on. At least that's now I feel.

This doesn't make sense.