The Year of Living Fearlessly (Recovering My Lost Childhood)

My 41st birthday is coming up and although I've done a lot in my life, I often feel like I haven't done enough.  And, yes, ya'll know about my burning desire to write and to get my book published, yada yada yada.  But, I've never spoken of the more mundane things that I wish to achieve.  Like learning how to ride a bicycle.  Or swim.  Or how to play an instrument.  There are so many things that I simply never learned how to do.  Sometimes, I look at Bren and I am in awe of him.  He throws himself into everything so wholeheartedly.  God bless him.  I hope he continues to be that way.

While I exemplify some good things (getting an education, focus, drive), I know that I am also a model of fear for him.  I am fearful of animals.  I am fearful of risk.  I dread change.  I scream my lungs out on amusement park rides.  (Sigh.)

So, for the next year, I commit to living fearlessly.  I am promising myself that by October 2012 (or when the world ends, according to some), I will have -- at a minimum -- learned how to ride a bike, swim and play an instrument.  I also want to learn how to ride a motorcycle, take at least one flying lesson and skydive.  I will, of course, regale you all with my adventures.  I'm sure you can't wait to hear all about them .... :-)

How to Turn Any Failure Into Success

I was transferring my list of contacts from one e-mail account to another when I saw something that made my stomach clench:  the list of agents to whom I had sent a query regarding my book "The Five Lives of Mimi."  It was not an extensive list -- about 10 people, but it was enough to sour my day and make me feel like a failure.

I quickly logged off the account and tried to occupy myself with something else.  But my mind kept going back to that list.  And the more I thought about it, the crappier I felt.

Fast forward a few hours and I come across this article:  How to Turn Any Failure into Success by Martha Beck.  Ms. Beck basically says that in order to appreciate success, one must first wallow through failure.  She talks about how -- sometimes -- the best reponse to a perceived failure is not "oh no!" but to say "oh well ..." and keep moving.  She provides an example from her own life about how her love of drawing turned to despair and loathing after an art teacher ordered her to draw only with a drafting pen in his class.  Having never been exposed to the instrument before, she simply could not get it to work the way she wanted it to.  Of course, after thousands of tries, she learns to draw with the pen and creates an award-winning work of art.

I know I am missing something in my quest to get Mimi published.  I am obviously not using the right words to pique the agents' interest or not approaching the right people.  (Or, as my friend Katia and I sometimes discuss, it may simply be a matter of waiting for divine timing.)  Whatever it is, that "failure" is sticking in my craw.  I hate it.  But until I get over it and unless I keep sending those letters not knowing whether I will get the courtesy of a response, I will never know the sweet taste of success.

Til Death Do Us Part

Chris Rock has a funny bit in a comedy routine where he talks about being married.  He says – and I’m paraphrasing – that there comes a time in every marriage when the wife is going to wish the husband dead.  He says that he has caught his wife looking at him plenty of times where he can almost see the thought bubble above her head “I wish he would just drop dead right now.  I won’t have to deal with a divorce or a custody battle.  Just drop dead!  Drop dead, drop dead, drop dead!”

I have been there.  In a comedy routine, it is funny; in real life, it is not.

Two days ago, I picked up a pen, found an old journal and started writing again.  Before that day, I hadn’t journaled in over four years.  Giving up journaling was traumatic for me.  It was as if someone had pressed the “mute” button on my brain. I no longer had an outlet where I could vent my feelings, my disappointments, my anger, safely.  But I had to stop, because my privacy was breached and when I wrote, I no longer knew whether I was writing what I actually felt or if I was writing for an audience.

As a child, I was not encouraged to express myself.  Children were seen and not heard.  So I wrote.  I would internalize everything and when it got to be too heavy a burden, I would lay it down on paper.  That is how I dealt.

Then I met Big Bren.  Big Bren and I were like oil and vinegar.  If he said “up,” I said “down.”  If he said “black,” I said “white.”  We clashed constantly.  But instead of walking away from him and finding someone with whom I was more compatible, I continued to subject myself to him.  And so, I wrote.  I wrote all the things I could not tell him.  When I felt my anger spiraling out of control, I wrote some more.  But still I stayed.  And the more I tolerated, the more he piled on.  There was no pleasing him.  He became controlling.  One day, he smashed my computer screen because he reviewed my browsing history and didn’t like some of the websites I had visited.  He shredded a $300 coat I bought him because we got into an argument.  He poked fun of me for meditating.  One time, we went on vacation and on the flight back, I fell asleep and leaned onto his shoulder; he elbowed me awake.  I wrote this all down.  (I'm sure that if he was a writer, he'd be writing about me as well.  He ticked off my mother one day when she was making him coffee at her house.  She asked him how he wanted it.  His reply:  "Like my woman -- dark and bitter."  He would probably also tell of the time soon after we started dating when he told me me was going on vacation and I called my friend Nycol up and we followed him.  Or when I threw a glass at him because I heard him concluding a telephone conversation with "I love you, too" and thought he was speaking to another woman; he was -- his mother.  Or when I attached a GPS tracker to his car.) 

Then, one day, he discovered my journals.  At first, it was a hidden treasure for him.  He could get a sneak peak into my mind without my knowing he had been there.  Then, his need to control took over and he began “answering” my journal entries.  If I said something nasty about him, there would be a corresponding response.  In one I wrote, “I need to get out of this relationship.”  He responded, “don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

Every time I got a new hiding place for my journal, he found it.  He was completely invested in controlling everything about me, including my thoughts.  After we had the baby, it seemed to get worse.  Now he had a little person to control me with.  When I wrote entries to my son, he ripped them out. 

So I stopped writing.  And that is when the “I wish him dead” thoughts started.  That and the recurring depression, over-eating and corresponding weight gain.  I prayed he would die and I would get a chance to meet someone and be happy for once.  I prayed he would die before my son became aware of how truly dysfunctional his parents’ relationship was.  I prayed he would stop breathing in his sleep and simply die.  I didn’t want him to suffer.  I didn’t want him to get killed.  I just wanted him to die!  I didn’t feel like I had the will power or the wherewithal to walk away from him, but well, if he died …

I’ve said before that God doesn’t always answer our prayers the way we want Her to, but She always listens.  Shortly after I started praying for that man to die, things began to change in my marriage.  It was as if a film had been lifted from my eyes and I was able to really see for a change.  I began to notice that when I didn’t speak up for myself (because I was pouring everything into a journal), his behavior escalated.  He was exactly like a child seeking attention.  I realized that the closer I was to the truth about a matter, the louder he yelled and the more hateful he became.  If I challenged him on something trivial, the stakes became higher and higher, with no winners.  And underneath all the bravado, he was a frightened little boy who was afraid that I would reject him and leave him all alone.

As all of this became clear to me, I began to change as well.  Instead of spewing hatred at him for all the things he didn’t do, didn’t have and couldn’t provide, I began to appreciate all the things he did do and continues to do for our household.  Instead of automatically responding with an opposing view to everything he said, I began to think first and answer second.

Those relatively minor things have made all the difference in our putrefying marriage and have given it a new life I didn’t think he was going to live to see.  As sure as I sit here, the man that he was is dead and gone.  Just as I have laid the old crazy version of me to rest.  Which is a good thing, because the woman I am now would not tolerate the ill treatment of yesteryear; and I hope that who he is now would not be attracted to a loony bitch.  These days, we most definitely still have our fights; old habits (on both our parts) die hard.  But when I see either or both of us engaging in the old behaviors, I can stop the pattern now before the downward spiral.  The result is that I feel like I can write again.  This blog was the beginning of my renaissance – the permission I needed to give myself to speak freely again.  He no longer feels the need to read my journals (or even this blog), but if he does, there is nothing that I haven’t already told him. 

Long live my husband.

Update 9/30/11:  I was telling Big Bren about this post and how I'd written about all the crazy things we did to each other.  He looked at me, smiled wistfully and said, "Yeah, we had a really passionate relationship."  Aaaarrrgggghhhhh!

I went to a taping of "The View"

My friend Nycol was clearly ready for her close-up.

I was "thisclose" to Babs.



 It was a really good show (Michael Moore was on).  It's always good to get a reminder that there is more to life than the day-to-day.

Michael Moore is looking like his old self again (make of that what you will).  :-)

Vacation Pics

I took Bren to Honduras this Summer purportedly to get in touch with his roots. 

 We didn't get around to much root touching, but we certainly had fun trying ... :-)

Back to School

History Repeats ...

 I remember being 25.  I had graduated from law school and had passed the Bar exam on my first try.  I felt invincible -- like I could do anything.

One day around that time, all my siblings and I were at our parents' house in the Bronx.  It was some occasion and we were all there at the same time.  The conversation was flowing and I don't remember how we got to regrets and failed hopes, but my father said something to the effect of that if he didn't have to work his whole life to support his family, he would have gone to school and studied philosophy or become a lawyer.  The sadness with which he said it silenced the whole room.  It was a rare glimpse into his psyche; and it made me feel as if he had sacrificed himself and his dreams for us.

When I couldn't bear the silence any longer, I said "Why don't you go to school now?  We are all grown and out of the house.  There's nothing stopping you from following your dreams now." 

He looked at me like I was a fool.  I will always remember his response:  "It is too late for me.  I am too old now."  And, as he always does when the conversation gets heavy or uncomfortable, he walked out of the room and didn't come back.  My father was 55 at the time.

The other day, Brendan and I were cuddling in bed, as we do every night before his bedtime.  He suddenly turned to me and said, "Mommy, you look a little sad and tired.  Are you not happy?"  I looked at him a little sharply.  Who would've thought 7 year olds could be so perceptive?

"I'm happy now," I said, obviously deflecting the question.  He looked at me again.  "Do you like being a lawyer, Mommy?"  A slight pause on my end.  "Sometimes," I finally answered.  He was quiet for a few minutes, then: "What would you do if you could do any kind of job in the world, Mom?"  No pause this time, "I would write full-time.  And I would be involved in the entertainment business somehow, either writing television shows or movies or even acting."

He scrambled to sit up and grabbed my face in his little hands.  "So why don't you do it, Mommy?"  My immediate response:  "Well, baby, I'm too old now." 

I am forty years old.  A full 15 years younger than my dad was when we had our conversation.  As those words left my mouth, I realized that they weren't true.  There is always time to do an about-face if you know you are going down the wrong path.  There is always time to reassess and get clear.  And there is always time to dream and have faith that those dreams will come true.

So, now, a month before my 41st birthday, I hereby re-commit to my dreams.  Not my childhood dreams, but the dreams I have now as a woman.  I vow to lead my son by example.  How can I tell him that all things are possible for him, but live with my own personal failure?  I don't want him to learn that when things don't happen right away, you simply give up.  I want him to be a fighter and for that, I am getting up and getting back in the ring.       

Everything you should know about kids, but no one bothered to tell you

In honor of a good friend who just recently had a little one, I am republishing this:

 

Everything you should know about kids ...

• Whoever coined the term “sleeps like a baby” to mean deep, restful sleep probably never had children. Sleeping babies are the most unrestful beings you will ever witness. Not only do they wake up every few hours to eat, but while they are actually sleeping, they: flail their arms (sometimes hitting themselves in the face and waking themselves up); they twist and turn; they whimper and cry; and they pee and poop.
• The “Terrible Twos” last from 18 months until 18 years.
• A two year old will refuse to eat anything you make, but if Grandma makes it, it’s going down without a fight.
• At some point in his life, your son will want to be a princess for Halloween.
• All young kids are fascinated by poop.
• A three-, and even a four, -year-old does not mind spending the day with a piece of crap stuck to his bottom.
• Speaking of which, before your child turns 3, make sure you buy stock in Fruit of the Loom. I cannot tell you the number of briefs that went straight from my son’s bottom into the trash can.
• You will understand every single word that comes out of your two-year-old’s mouth, even when it sounds like complete gobbly-gook to everyone else.
• "Home Decor" to children means figuring out where to stick the boogers: the wall or the ceiling. Bunk beds are perfect for ceiling-booger decor.
• Once the kid comes out, your body fat migrates to parts of your body where you didn’t think fat could exist. I have back fat now. Enough said.
• The skin literally falls off your nipples within three weeks of starting to breastfeed your bundle of joy. Oh, and by the way, that hurts. A lot.
• After feeding a child with your breasts, you will never look at them the same way again. (Your navel will be able to look directly at them, but you won’t. Never. Again.)
• Talking about breasts, you might want to refrain from telling a four-year-old what breasts are really for. That is unless you don’t mind him screaming in the middle of A&P, “Mommy, why can’t I drink milk from your breasts anymore???”

Despite all of the above, you will love your child(ren) more than life itself. You love them so much, it’s actually scary. So maybe, just maybe, it makes it all worthwhile. :-)

Mid-Life Crisis (?)

Am I too young to be going through a mid-life crisis?

When most people think of a mid-life crisis, the picture that usually comes to mind is a pudgy old man with a bad rug, a red sports car and a young girlfriend trying to recapture his youth.  Despite the funky manifestations, we know that the reason for the meltdown is the realization that half of one's life is gone and perhaps, one has not done what they thought they were put here to do.

I haven't traded Big Bren in for a younger model and I haven't given up my soccer-mom car, but my mind is constantly churning.  I cannot imagine doing what I am doing for the rest of my life (or until I retire), but the doors to other opportunities remain steadfastly closed.

So, I ask, am I going through a mid-life crisis?  If so, when does it end???

Delayed Gratification

That is my mantra these days.

There is so much I want and so much I want to do and I want it all NOW.  I have to keep reminding myself that slow and steady wins the race.  Whether it's a slice of cake or the new Gucci bag, I have to keep chanting "delayed gratification" to myself.  Most times it works; sometimes it doesn't (as I eat the last piece of flan in the fridge ...).

Pen Pal

Over the past year, I have developed a relationship with a former co-worker that is quite unique and extremely gratifying.  We are pen pals.  We don't send each other formal letters; instead we send e-mails throughout the day, that we retrieve on our respective cell phones.  The e-mails are more personal than texts or twitter updates, but less stuffy than letters.  It works for us.

For the life of me, I cannot remember how it started.  But now I look forward to the incessant digital chatter throughout the day.  We talk about everything: politics, life, children (he has one on the way), books, work, growing up, marriage, food.  All in little snippets.  He will send me a note that says "your thoughts on Arianna Huffington."  Response:  "Love the Huffington Post; don't know much about the woman."  Reply:  "She was once a conservative and married to a Republican.  He decided he was gay and they got divorced."  Then on to the next topic.

The funny thing is that although he works down the road from me, we rarely see each other.  We don't "speak" well to each other; our relationship is best in digital form.

Early on, when I realized how much I enjoyed and looked forward to his communications, I searched my mind for ulterior motives -- on his part or mine -- and, thankfully, found none.  It is not an affair -- of the heart, mind or otherwise -- it is a friendship, plain and simple, albeit of the digital kind.

The Absence of Fear

My son has no fear.  None whatsoever. 

There is something both amazing and frightening about that.  Amazing because, well, imagine the things that we, as adults, could do, if we incorporated the fearlessness of a child.  And frightening, because, well, I'm his mother.  :)

P.S.  He has also learned the more harmless skill of riding a bicycle.

Enough

I always have weird dreams in the days leading up to Father's Day.  I dream I am a child again and my father is yelling at me.  Sometimes, he has just died and I don't know how to react:  am I supposed to be sad or relieved?  When I awaken, I am usually just numb.  I know I have daddy issues.  I always have.  It is difficult growing up with a father who is withholding and unloving.  At some point, I internalized the fact that I was unloveable and unworthy.  I was never good enough for him; so now I am never good enough for me.  He will die someday, probably sooner, rather than later; I will have no closure.  I fear that he will take a piece of me with him, leaving the puzzle that is "me" unsolved.

I have tried to sort my daddy issues out.  I have tried forgiveness.  I have tried releasing him psychically, emotionally and psychologically.  None of it worked.  So, in my desperation, I confronted him.  I told him how I felt unloved by him.  How, no matter how much I've tried to please him, it was never enough.  How painful it was for me to see him develop and enjoy his relationships with my siblings, while the only thing he bestowed upon me was disdain.  I looked him in the eyes as I pleaded with him to explain to me where our relationship had gone so horribly wrong.  And ... he got up and walked away from me. Without saying a word.  Without denying his lack of love for me.  I think that one action at 40 was worse than all the emotional abuse, the distance and the disapproval of the 40 preceding years.

They say those who do not learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them.  While my issue with my father is not my mistake, per se, I have repeated this "not enough-ness" throughout my whole life.  It has plagued me through relationships, jobs and friendships.  When I receive acceptance, love and approval from strangers, I cannot process it.  My mind will not receive it, so my not enough-ness continues.  

So, on this Father's Day, when I see my son with his father and experience the pure and unadulterated love between the two, I feel happy that he has that.  No matter what life may bring him, that is something that no one can ever take away.  To that, I raise my glass and say "Happy Father's Day."

Nature Unleashed

This is what I awakened to yesterday morning.

I need a Mommy

It's been a long time, mi gente, but I'm baaaaaaaaaaaack.  :-)

Don't kids have it great?  They have parents to wake them up, remind them to brush their teeth, get them breakfast, help them get dressed, etc., etc.  As I was poking and prodding Brendan along this morning (I swear, he's worse than cattle in the a.m.), it suddenly occurred to me that I could seriously use a "Mommy."  Not a mother -- I have one of those.  A mommy.  Someone to poke and prod me through life.

I mean, if I had a mommy, I wouldn't spend endless hours on the internet.  I'd be writing my next book or plugging away at the billable hours.  My mommy would guilt me into productivity and out of procrastination.  My mommy would make me keep sending query letters to agents, even when I don't feel like it (and, Lordy Lord, I don't feel like it).  I wouldn't be able to insist on going to bed at midnight every day, knowing full well how exhausted I'll be.  No, siree, my mommy wouldn't allow that. 

It's funny how, as grown-ups, we know what we should be doing, but fail to do it anyway.

Signs

Big Bren and I have been going through a personal trial these past few weeks.  As a sort of last resort for me, I decided to PUSH (Pray Until Something Happens).  For weeks, I have gotten down on my knees every day and prayed -- not necessarily for a favorable resolution -- but for God's will to be done and for peace to accept whatever that may be.

In the natural, I didn't see anything happening.  However, for the past few weeks -- almost since this matter cropped up to aggravate us -- a plant started growing outside our door.  It began like a weed and although we have been outside many times pulling weeds, we were reluctant to pluck it, so we let it grow.  And grow it did; by last night, it was almost as tall as Brendan.  Still, we left it alone.

This morning, Big Bren and I got up to get Brendan ready for his first day of school.  As we walked out to put him on the bus, we saw that our botanical visitor had revealed itself:

It is a sunflower.  And not just any sunflower -- a giant, towering sunflower.  A sunflower that we did not plant.  A giant sunflower that bloomed in September, when all other flowers have called it a day.  A flower whose symbolism is that of positivity and light.

I don't know if God answers prayers the way we want them to be answered, but no one can say that She doesn't listen.

Brendan playing dress-up

He just cracks me up.  :-)

And, no, the glasses aren't real.

Negative Motivation

My siblings and I have been struggling with the fact that our children are classic underachievers -- smart kids who refuse to take a single extra step for their own betterment.  Not a single valecdictorian, honor student or even hard worker in the bunch.  They sit back and wait to be clothed, fed and coddled.

Last I spoke with my oldest sister, she said something that made me think.  She said that despite our parents' obvious lack of parenting skills, we all finished school and graduated with good grades.  And we are all hardworkers; each of us has been working since the age of 15.  So, how did they do it?

We got nothing for "free."  We had chores that surpassed those of grown women (cleaning the house, cooking, washing, ironing, etc.).  And we got clothes once a year; if your clothes got holey or worn out before then, it was too bad.  Our parents never directed a kind word to any of us.  No "I'm proud of you," or "you did good."  No "undeserved" kisses or spontaneous hugs.  But if we messed up in anything, we would hear for months how "useless" we were and how we would amount to nothing.

For whatever reason, those vitriolic words motivated us to prove our parents wrong.  So, are we "too good" to our children?  Is our unconditional love and support damaging them, instead of helping them?  Who is to say?

It's really sad when only negativity can motivate you.  I have lost 17 pounds so far; but what gets my butt in the gym is not seeing my size 10 pants practically falling off me or being able to wear clothes that have been sitting in my closet for three years.  No, it's not that at all; rather, it's seeing the rolls of fat still on my back and the spare tire that refuses to budge.

My son's go-to phrases when he doesn't want to do something is "I don't know how to do it" (most often than not said before he even tries) and "this is boring."  So I ask myself:  do I "motivate" my beautiful son by berating him for failing/refusing to do something that I know will benefit him (like his homework or practicing his sports) or do I keep being loving and supportive despite any purported lack of achievement (because, really, how much can you really achieve at six years old)?  That is a doozy of a question.

Payoff!

By golly, I got it!  (Okay, fine, I'm "getting" it.)

I've lost 13 pounds on Weight Watchers.  It hasn't gotten much easier, but now that I am seeing the payoff to the sacrifice, I'm more committed to the process.

See ya'll at the finish line.  :-)

What do you really want?

I saw this on the Huffington Post today:

It really got me thinking about my life and what I want.  So I sat still and wrote down five things that I "really" want.

1. I want to be employed doing what I love and make a great living doing so.
2. I want to see Brendan grow up.  And that means not just being physically alive when he is a grown up, but enjoying him as he grows up.  I want us to see different parts of the world together and spend real time with each other, not an hour in the evening or a few hours on the weekend.
3. I want to live somewhere warm year-round.
4. I want to weigh 125 pounds again; and I want to do it while feeling healthy and energetic (not to mention, looking good).
5. I want to be joyful.  Not "happy"; joyful.  The state where I can enjoy the journey without always checking to see if I've reached some destination. 

Writing down this list really made me re-focus.  Maybe you should try it.

Anal Glaucoma

I was having lunch at a local restaurant the other day when I overheard the following conversation:

Guy #1:  I'm trying to get some fishing in, but the weather has been sort of crappy.
Guy #2:  Yeah, I know.  It's supposed to rain on and off for the next few days.  The first good day predicted will be Monday.
Guy 1:  Really?  Then, I'll go to work for the rest of the week and call in with anal glaucoma on Monday.
Guy 2:  Say what?
Guy 1:  You've never heard of anal glaucoma?  That means I don't see my ass going in to work on Monday.

As Cindy Adams would say, only in New York, kids.  Only in New York.

Sunshine & Rainbows

Every time I speak with my oldest sister these days, she gets on my back about my "relentlessly negative" posts of the past few months.  So I had every intention today of writing something happy; you know, full of sunshine and rainbows.

Then, I decided not to.

You see, when I first started this blog, I made it clear that I would be writing my truth, no one else's.  And my truth is that sometimes my life is full of sunshine and rainbows, and sometimes, it's not.  Sometimes, I am in the mood for introspection.  Sometimes, I am in the mood for so-called "negativity."  Sometimes, it's about celebrity gossip.

As a child, I used to watch PBS's Electric Company.  There was a little Hispanic girl who was always painting.  When you looked over her shoulder to see what she was painting, it was always polka dots.  One day, one of the other characters asked her why she painted polka dots all the time.  And for the first time, she turned to face the audience and said, "Yo pinto lo que veo."  (I paint what I see.)  As she said that, the viewer noticed that she had spots on her glasses, so all she could see were those dots.

These days, that child is me.  I paint polka dots because that is what I see.  I make no excuses.  I have to say, though, that I haven't gotten any other complaints about my "negativity."  So, Mami-Sis, what is it that you are seeing?  Could you be wearing tainted glasses, too?

Love

I got this e-mail from my little brother, Roy, today and it almost made me cry.  Sometimes, it helps to know that someone, somewhere, is thinking of you and loves you.

Metamorphosis Complete

I have completed my metamorphosis into Soccer Mom.

Relapse and Deprivation :-(

Okay, I have been on Weight Watchers for 3 weeks now.  That means 3 weeks of no ice cream, no fried food, very little rice, no soda, no juice, no pizza, and tiny, tiny -- did I say "tiny"? -- portions.  And I lost a measly 8.9 pounds.

I've been working out 3 or 4 times a week.  AND I LOST A MEASLY 8.9 POUNDS!

With each passing week, it feels harder, not easier to stick with the plan.  I know that I am doing it the proper way -- the internet is replete with reports that optimal weight loss for long term maintenance is 1 to 2 pounds a week.  Lose any more than that, and your body thinks you're starving and slows your metabolism down to a crawl.  Weight Watchers does it the right way.  So why am I so miserable?

Progress is glacial, that's why.  I am the kind of person who needs immediate gratification (hence, my current predicament).  Which is why this past weekend, I forgot about Weight Watchers for a minute and ate an entire fried fish.  And fried plantains.  And drank soda.  And ate a whole hero sandwich -- with mayo!  Then I had some ice cream.  And movie theatre popcorn WITH butter.

Hey, I figured that if it took me 3 weeks to lose a piddly 8.9 pounds, it would take a while for the scale to creep up.  WRONG!  The next day, I hopped on the scale and was shocked to see that I had gained 2 pounds overnight.  So now, I've lost only 6.9 friggin' pounds.  Where is the justice in that???

Oh well, now that I've had my relapse, it's time to go back to the deprivation (sigh).

The Sky is Falling!

I am tired of the proliferation of articles/programs/books about Professional Black Women Not Being Able to Find a Man!  Or as my other professional Black women friends and I call it: The Sky is Falling!

The coverage has ranged from philosophical (there are not enough Black men to go around because all of them are either flocking to white women or they’re in jail) to ridiculous (Black women need to harness their “anger” before they can be good partners).

Pure and simple, professional Black women are not getting married because they CHOOSE not to get married.  Seriously, if a woman – any woman – wants to get married (or “get a man” as ABC puts it), she simply has to settle for someone.  There are enough saggy-pantsed man-boys on the street corners for every Black woman IF she wanted one.  Newsflash:  She doesn’t want one.  There are plenty of Hector Penates and Jon Gosselins to be had.  She doesn’t want those, either.  And if she wanted to be someone’s baby momma, well, P. Diddy and Lil Wayne always have room in their harems.  

The fact is, instead of beating up on Black women for making the valid choice of not getting married, they should be applauded for taking control of their lives.  Every professional Black woman I know leads a full life.  They take multiple vacations every year, own their own homes and cars; and when they need male “companionship,” they get it.  Black women are not “on the shelf,” they are living their lives on their terms.  Why is there suddenly something wrong with that?  

And why aren’t White people being studied?  Someone please tell me why old White men keep marrying much younger women, only to get cuckolded (I’m looking at you, Larry King and Hugh Heffner)?  Can a study be done on how a White wife doesn’t know her husband is cheating until the 13^th mistress or hooker pops up out of the woodwork (yes, that would be you, Elin, Sandra and Mrs. Spitzer)?

From what I see, professional Black women may be making a good choice – you don't see professional Black women being Tiger Woodsed or Jesse Jamesed, do you?

Personal Accountability

I went shopping for jeans the other day.  The only size that fit was a 10.  I stopped for a moment; I did not want to buy jeans in that size.

Now, a size 10 is nothing to run away from.  No one could say that a woman who wears a size 10 is morbidly obese or even seriously overweight.  But there I was, terrified of buying those size 10 jeans.  In a frightening flash-forward, I could see myself buying size 12 next, size 14 and so on.  I could see myself becoming the Honduran Kirstie Alley.

My struggle with my weight began only 3 years ago.  I was not a chubby child -- to the contrary, I was often underweight.  I had to eat constantly to maintain a decent weight.  This went on into my teenage years and then into my twenties.  Everyone said that my metabolism would come to a crawl when I hit thirty, but it didn't.  In fact, when I was 30, I went on a vacation with Big Bren and I was so annoyed because the smallest shorts I could find at the Gap for the trip were a size 4 and they were too big.

The prognostications continued -- I wouldn't be able to lose the weight when I had Brendan.  I hated to disappoint the Negative Nellies, but two weeks after I gave birth, I pulled on my size 4 jeans and zipped it up -- with a few inches to spare.

Then about 3 years ago, the prophesies proved true; I began to pack on the pounds.  So what happened?

For the past three years, I've made every excuse:  everyone my age is this size; everyone in my family is fat, it was a miracle I managed to stay so thin for so long; I have no time to exercise; the foods I eat are not that fattening; etc, etc.

The fact is that I stopped doing all the things that were keeping me thin.  I stopped walking.  I stopped dancing.  I stopped going to the gym.  I stopped noticing when I was full and ate until my plate was empty.  And I eat when I am tired.  I eat when I am depressed.  I eat when I am bored.  I eat when I need to fill in the time.  I eat when I am stressed.  I eat when I am relaxed.  I eat, I eat, I eat.

After deciding that I had to do something about my weight, I hopped on the scale and gasped at the number:  158 lbs.

And that is when it hit me.  That is why I was so reluctant to buy those size 10 jeans.  At my last weigh in before I gave birth to Brendan, I weighed 159 pounds.  And at my baby shower -- when I was 8 months pregnant -- I wore a pair of size 10 jeans from the Gap.  Not maternity jeans; regular size 10 jeans.  I was now wearing the same size jeans that I wore when I was practically in labor.

Talk about a wake-up call.

Last Tuesday, I went to Weight Watchers for the first time.  I have often called out others for their delusions.  Well, today is my day for personal accountability.

Who are they fooling?

From AOL:

If you're trying to sell me a bathing suit that supposedly hides figure "flaws," please don't insult my intelligence by having a model who probably weighs 95 pounds soaking wet model the darned thing.  Give me a real woman, so I can see what the suit actually does.  Geez.

Respite

I took a much needed vacay to recharge my batteries.  Now I'm fully charged and ready to go.  Try to keep up.  :-)