Get used to disappointment.

Walking into my teeny tiny gym today, I found that both of my beloved all motion trainer machines were occupied. I’ll admit, upon seeing the two biddies lovely ladies getting their burn on what I have decided are my machines, I had a quick thought of just turning around and going home. I mean, how else was I supposed to burn my 700 calories in 60 minutes?

This was disappointment number 1 – my expectations for what was going to happen at the gym were not met. And I had a choice – let those broken expectations dictate what I was going to do, essentially send me packing, or reconfigure the expectations into something I could work with.

Well, one of the two ellipticals which stand right next to the amts was open. Now to me, the amt is like the elliptical’s older, cooler, hotter brother. the elliptical is great and all – he’s sweet, cute, and funny, but, well, once you meet the amt, you just can’t help wanting to be his girlfriend (don’t worry, elliptical, I won’t forget you – we’ll always be friends. it’s not you – it’s me.) That was the one I went with, and I planted myself on the elliptical. I was still feeling disappointed (especially with having to be right next to the lady enjoying my amt) but I thought I should try to move forward – life is full of disappointment. It has been a while since I have been on the elliptical. Like probably a couple of years. So I start moving my feet a bit, and let me tell you, I forgot how weird the stride is on those things. That is not really a movement that I make anywhere else in my life, and I didn’t care for it. In fact, I really disliked it.

Here is where I hit disappointment number 2 – my new plan, which was designed to help me overcome the disappointment of losing the first plan, was uncomfortable and not anywhere near meeting my old expectations. Again, I was faced with a choice – bail out on the cardio and go home, switch to the dreaded treadmill, or suck it up and keep going, knowing that it wasn’t going to be as good as I’d hoped, but at least it would be something. Taking a deep breath, I went with the third option and turned on the TV screen, only to be met squarely with:

Disappointment number 3. Apparently something wasn’t working with the cable, because USA, the channel I have grown very fond of watching while I work out, wasn’t working. At all. Black screen. Leaving only 3 other channels to choose from – ESPN (I don’t like sports) CNN (or the people interviewed on the 24 hour news stations) or NBC and the today show (which isn’t as bad as bamboo under my fingernails, but it isn’t usually a very pleasant experience for me.) Another disappointment, another choice. I could do twenty minutes and pretend like that was all the time I had planned on working out today, plug into my iPod which is in desperate need of some new workout music, or watch Meredith Vieira try again and again to be funny while invariably failing (I mean, for goodness sake, Matt Lauer wasn’t even there today, and he is the one thing I like about that show.)

I did a mental check with myself, realizing how many times my immediate decision would be to just quit. I thought to myself “good heavens, is this how I respond to ALL the disappointment in my life?” And, unfortunately, I think a good deal of it has been dealt with by freaking out, breaking down, railing at the world, and ultimately just giving up, rather than by calmly reviewing my options and choosing the one that, while it may not be what I wanted to do, will still get me SOMEWHERE instead of leaving me NOWHERE.

And so I stayed and watched Meredith and her coworkers talk their way through an hour of programming, cringing internally when she didn’t get Bill Cosby’s jokes or tried to make her own when she should have just let the man do what he does best. I had to keep going through the five minute cool down to get my 700 calories, but you know what? Five extra minutes didn’t kill me! (shocking, I know.)

The one disappointment that I couldn't overcome was the fact that I forgot to grab something to eat before I ran out the door this morning to workout (all that dreaming of my amt distracted me.) So by the time I finished my cardio, I couldn't stay and do any weights, as I felt like I was just this side of throwing up all over the gym floor (I don’t know about your gym, but they frown upon that where I go.)

So here is my challenge for, well, the foreseeable future, and I extend it to you as well: really look at how you react to disappointment, and what you do with it. Do you look at it, kick it a bit in anger, and then just sit down and do nothing about it? Do you look at it for a few minutes, shocked into staring, before stepping around it to find a new path? Do you simply step over it and move on without flinching? I’m going to be trying for option three.

Fat Lip

My dad has my kids this week. Now let me say, for the record, that I love my kids. But four kids at home ALL day ALL summer long, well, that gets to be a little wearing. Especially when they want to kill each other about 90% of the time. Directly resulting in me wanting to kill them 95% of the time. (Funny thing about percentages - mine don't always match up.) So my response when my dad said that he wanted all four for a week before school starts? Yee-freaking-haw! (That may or may not be a direct quote.)

Hubby and I went to dinner with his mom last night, then to frozen yogurt by ourselves, with some shopping in between (during which I found absolutely nothing and then tried to talk myself into the idea that no, it isn't because there is something wrong with my body, there just wasn't anything in THREE stores for me. Could happen to anyone.)

Today we decided to go and donate some blood before he had to go to work. We race when we give blood, and so far he always wins. I'm no slouch at bleeding, but I am going to claim that gravity works harder on him since he is sooo much taller than me. He beat my by a minute. We did our required ten minutes in the snack area afterwards, munching and drinking, before heading home to eat lunch. Just after we walked in the door, my dad called to tell me "Jonathan's okay, but..." I think that all of us moms know that when a sentence starts out that way, all is not well. Turns out the 3 year old bailed off of a scooter, and Dad was unsure whether or not I might want to take him in for stitches, and a chunk of his lip was MISSING. Hmmmm.

Did I mention my Dad lives about 40 minutes away? So I first talked tried to talk him through taking some pictures and emailing them to me so that I could see what the damage was without him having to load up all four kids and drive them down. Dad could have driven down here by the time we were successful (and in the end he had to post them to my Facebook page because the email thing wasn't happening - note to self to teach Dad how to do some things on him computer the next time I am up there!) At any rate, after talking with the advice nurse, I made an appointment to take him in tonight.

Well, in all the mess of trying to do all that, I forgot to eat (did you know you are supposed to do a lot of that after you give blood?) so by the time I went outside when my dad dropped Jonathan off, I actually almost blacked out. I have never had that happen before, but I was standing there, and suddenly got REALLY nauseas and dizzy, then there was a huge whooshing sound in my ears and I couldn't hear, and I stumbled a bit and had to sit on the lawn with my head between my knees while my oldest ran in to grab me something to eat. I felt like an idiot.

Anyhow, 6 stitches later, Jonathan's lip will heal. (The physicians assistant recognized the boy from putting his cast on a few months ago "Hey bud - how's the arm?" and told me that this kid is going to be scarred up by the time he hits high school. No news flash there.) All he wanted to eat afterwards was rice, soup, and ice cream, so we went to the sushi buffet and had dinner. His lip was numb for a long time, so it was funny to watch him eat/drink/try to smile. I have a feeling my kids are really going to make fun of me and laugh at me when I am old and infirm, just to pay me back.

Because I gave blood today, I wasn't able to workout, but I think that with all the non-eating, my weight shouldn't change too much. The boy has gone back to Pa's house (the thought I had after I had gotten his appointment and felt terrible for him having to have stitches was "Well crap, now Dad is probably going to give all of them back and there goes my week." Thank goodness, that was not the case) and I am enjoying a completely empty, quiet house tonight. I am going to go and read quietly. Or dance around the house naked.

Low Class

Hubby and I were conversing the other night about some of the blogs I read. (He is learning to know you all by name – we had a little quiz.) Anyhow, in particular I was telling him about Chris over at A Deliberate Life - specifically the fact that she has broken into a size 8 (go and congratulate her!) I was, of course, lamenting the fact that never in my life do I recall being a size 8, and how I would love to work my way down. His reply was that it would be a constant struggle for me to remain at that size, to which I responded that it would, but my life would just be so much better. He looked at me and, knowing that what was going through my mind was how I would be a better person, equal to those around me, if only I could lose enough weight, said:

“The numbers are there to help you find clothes that fit you; it is not a class system.”

Every once in a while, Hubby says something that really resonates with me (ok, maybe more often than once in a while, but the man has enough self-esteem – I have to keep it in check!) This statement was one of those. After he said the words, it was as though they echoed through the car. I continued to hear them throughout the night, and even now they keep coming back to me.

I have always looked at my size as something that makes me less than others (how is that for irony?), something that is directly linked to my worth. I have always thought that if I could just get skinny, I would be a better person, my life would be happier, and I would think more of myself. Hubby knows this. And he also knows that what I need to hear, and hear often, is that the number on my jeans is not who I am, does not define me, and does not determine where I fit into the world as a person. So as those words continue to echo, I am striving to lock them down in my brain and keep them there, where hopefully I can begin to believe them.  

Title Change

I've been thinking about it for a while, and couldn't remember why I titled my blog something different than what the address was. So now they match. I plan to be back later with some weight-related blogging.

No Apologies

I had an epiphany of sorts today. As I was walking through a local shopping center, I found myself with my eyes on the ground, moving somewhat quickly without making eye contact with anyone, trying to be invisible. Now, this shopping complex was not located in the ghetto, where one might expect a bit of quick maneuvering and people-evading in order to remain safe. No, this nearby shopping center (which also happens to be the one which houses Hubby’s restaurant of employment) is a very upscale place, defined by the marketers as being akin to shopping in San Francisco (once again, the good part of town, not the scary part.) So why was my head down? While I was bee-lining for Hubby’s restaurant, it hit me – I was apologizing for myself. I was awash with the feeling that I was in a place where I didn’t belong, surrounded as I was by swanky, skinny, trendy women, and my first reaction was to be sorry to them for being in their space. I started to think about some of the other times when I apologize for who I am and what I look like, and I was upset to find that I hadn’t even noticed before that I was doing it.

Every time I hunch my shoulders and avoid making eye contact with the people walking around me, I am apologizing for myself. When I look at my favorite pair of workout pants folded in my drawer and choose the other pair because they are more forgiving in the general butt area, I am apologizing for myself. When I don’t take another piece of something at a dinner party because I am ashamed of being the fat girl who is still hungry, I am apologizing for myself. And my epiphany was – wait for it.....I don’t want to apologize for myself anymore. Apologizing for who I am isn’t making me any better liked, by others or by myself.

So I will walk with my shoulders back and my head up, and I will look people in the eye and let them know that I am there. I will wear my black stretchy workout pants to the gym, and if anyone has an opinion on my butt or my thighs, that is their problem (unless it is a good opinion, at which point they may by all means share it with me.) I will eat more if I am hungry, regardless of whose company I am in or how I think it makes me look.

I don’t want to be sorry to be me anymore.

Stranger in my Bed

Last night, as Hubby and I were involved in some, ahem, amorous activity...(it is amazing what can happen when your husband comes home from work at one in the morning to find you sleeping naked)...I had my arms wrapped around him, quite involved in certain areas of thought, when something passed suddenly through my mind. “This is not my Jon.” My arms wrapped around his waist, crossing each other with ease. In the last 6 months, under the stress and demand of his job, and due in no small part to working 9+ hour shifts on his feet with no meals, Hubby has lost quite a bit of weight, delving into numbers he hasn’t seen since high school. But last night, I could feel even more of a difference than I have become used to. Since we married, my hubby has seen my body go from that of an 18 year old to that of a 30 year old, increasing and decreasing in size and shape, gaining and losing tone, and changing drastically through the birth of four children. And he has desired and loved me through these 12 years, never wavering or wishing I was any different. I have dreamed of being slender, of being someone who was readily thought of as pretty, with no second glance given to the girth of my hips, but for the most part that has not been as much for Hubby as for myself. Until last night. Last night, with realizing how slim he has become, my next thought, arriving unbidden in the midst of our dalliance, was “I don’t want to be his Morgan.” What I meant by that thought was not that I didn’t want to belong to him, but rather that I don’t want to be this Morgan, in this body, belonging to him. I want to be a woman who matches him physically (as much as is possible against his lofty height of 6’7” from down here at 5’6”.) I want to feel like I am as attractive and slender as he is. I want him to see and feel my body and think, “This is not my Morgan.”

Struggling

I'm not gonna lie - I am STRUGGLING. I got off of my rules sometime last week before we left on our camping trip, and I have been off ever since. I have been eating what I want, when I want. And after several days of this, I am having a hard time forcing myself back into it (just like I will be having a hard time forcing myself back into my pants pretty soon if I keep this up.) Mentally I just haven't been up to the challenge, and I am playing all sorts of games with myself about how I should be happy with who I am and how I look. Then I turn to the blogs and see how on fire all of you out there are right now, and I feel so overwhelmed by how far I have to go (by the way, if one or two of you could just not be so awesome for a little while, it might make it easier for me. I'll let you decide amongst yourselves who it will be ;P )

I feel alone and incapable with this whole thing while everyone around me has their stuff together, and it stinks.