Saturday, September 26, 2015

Two years later, keeping off the weight's no piece of cake

With my Weight Watchers leader, Kim, on my goal day. Why do we look so sleepy?

Two years ago next week, I reached the culmination of my decision to no longer be heavy. Sixty-five pounds gone, I stood with my Weight Watchers leader for the photo above. Aside from the days my children were born, I don't think I'd ever been so happy.

After seven months of eating fruits, vegetables and lean protein and staying far away from restaurants, I'd reached my goal. I'd transformed myself outside and inside; I knew, I just knew, that I had beaten my food demons, and that life would be different. 

Now, two years later -- I'll be traveling on the actual anniversary, so I'm observing it now -- I agree with my prediction that day in the meeting room. Life is different. Good-different, mostly; I'm healthy. I'm at home in this smaller body. I like the way I feel.

But the rest of it is the hard kind of different. Much like friends who have to work on their sobriety every moment, I have to work on this. I had given lip service, as I was losing weight, to the fact that the plan I was following constituted a lifestyle change, not a diet. That is, and was, true. But I was treating like a diet. Still am.

I'm not sure how to adjust the part of me that views food in such an adversarial way. And I know I'm not alone.

I'm in awe of people who can simply eat -- who don't have to think about calories and points and sugar and carbs. Even when I was heavy, I was conscious of those things and cared about them, but didn't know how to stop eating to excess. More accurately, I wasn't willing to stop.

And then one day, shortly after turning 50, I was willing. I knew, though, that I would need accountability and structure, so I sought some. The timing was right, and everything came together. 

And there I stood that Sunday, having lost nearly a third of myself. (I'm still not sure where that one-third went, as the "loss" of body mass is still a concept that befuddles me.) And I knew, just knew, I'd never be heavy again.

I don't know why I was so breezily confident. I had lost and gained weight before, albeit never that much; I knew how easy it was to ease oneself out of the "zone," fall back into old habits and watch the weight creep back. 

But I was just so joyful. I never wanted to stop feeling that way.

Two years later, I no longer feel that way. I realize I've defied the odds in keeping the weight off for a while, but I've also had to fight like hell to limit my regain to five pounds. Slowly, I'm chipping away at those, and they'll soon be gone. And I'm still essentially "at goal," in the parlance of the plan I follow.

But I'm not counting on magic to keep me at this weight; the work will be mine and mine alone, and it will be constant. 

The fact that this will never be easy really frustrates me. Sometimes it makes me angry.

As I've learned along this road, not everyone who's heavy is a food addict. But for those of us who exhibit addictive behaviors around food, maintaining a weight loss can be stunningly difficult.

Much like the alcohol addict who talks herself into believing she can drink occasionally, I had decided I'd keep my weight off by adopting the "cheat day" mentality. For a long while, that strategy worked at the scale, but it didn't work for my psyche.

My system worked this way: For six days, I'd adhere perfectly to my point count (like a calorie count, but different), sticking to whole foods. Eating cleanly. But on the seventh day -- Katy, bar the door. There were few limits to my appetite or to the foolish ways I chose to sate it.

So I began living for Sundays, weighing in at my meeting and then starting the carb-and-sugar frenzy on the way home. The rest of the week, I'd deprive myself to make up for the calories I'd consumed on my cheat day.

So I'd retained nothing I'd learned about the healthy way to maintain a goal weight. I was gaming the system. But, hey, I reasoned -- it's working, so don't mess with it.

Until the week it stopped working. And it stopped because of, again, my faulty reasoning. "I'll eat what I want this whole week, but then spend the next seven weeks depriving myself to make up for it," I decided. 


I was traveling that week, and I had used travel as an excuse to eat indiscriminately. And the next week on the scale, I was horrified to see I had gained seven pounds.

Seven pounds.

No more cheat days, let alone cheat weeks, for me. 

I've since chipped that seven-pound gain to a little under five, but given the way I'm feeling about the extra weight, it may as well be 75. 

To be honest, some days I'm just so tired of it all.

I was talking with my husband about my struggle one day. He assumed he'd found my answer. "Just have a little bit of things," he suggested. "Have one cookie."

I laughed long and hard.  

I've fantasized from time to time about becoming heavy again. About allowing myself to eat what I want, to be less diligent about exercise, to simply relax. As my friend Bob wrote me a few months ago about my internal struggle, the body is simply a vessel for the mind and the soul.

True enough, but I don't want that vessel to have high blood pressure and high cholesterol again. I want to be able to exercise the way I want to, to move confidently and comfortably. For the first time in a long time, I like my body and want to continue to enjoy the way it looks and feels. Plus, I'm a small-framed person; when I'm heavy, I don't feel like myself. 

So I'll persevere. "Discipline" isn't a popular word when it comes to dealing with changing behaviors, because it implies that you're not getting to the root cause, just covering it up with authoritative behavior. But for me, weight maintenance is largely a matter of discipline. No, you can't have the donut, you can't have the pizza, I remind myself. Why? Because you don't have an "off" switch.

But staying away from pizza and donuts will certainly be worth it in the long term, I also tell myself. When my kids have kids, I want to be the nana pushing the jogging stroller, the grandma watching my grandkids wave little "congratulations" signs as I cross finish lines.

Why am I sharing something so personal, something that makes me sound as though I really don't have my act together? I'm sharing it to remind myself that I don't want to give up the fight. Some of the most important people in my life these days have never seen me heavy -- a fact that blows me away, really. I like to think those people know the real me, but the real me is also the "me" who's got some deeply rooted vulnerabilities around food. 

The other reason I'm sharing this is to ask anyone reading this not to shame heavy people, certainly, but also to try to refrain from judging them. Science doesn't fully understand what makes some people gain weight more easily than others; the conventional wisdom is it's a combination of nature and nurture. Whatever the root, just know it's a struggle. Food is everywhere. 

I'm hoping that when my three-year goal anniversary rolls around, I'll truly view it as a sobriety anniversary of sorts because I will have conquered some of the behaviors that cause me to be unable to stop at one donut.

The ability to stop "eating my feelings," as they say? A lofty goal, but I think I can get there. With awareness and acceptance come understanding and change. Things don't have to remain a certain way simply because they've always been that way. Behaviors can evolve.

Let's help each other. If you're struggling with this issue, I'd love to hear from you.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

"I'll Remember You"

When it came to just about anything, Jarrett and I didn't agree.

That proved to be a bit problematic, given that he was my boss.

Jarrett hired me to work for him in 2003. He was marketing communications manager in a department that functioned as an internal agency for a large financial-services provider. My job: to write about health insurance.

Exciting? On even the best day, no. But I had two children. Obligations. The company was highly regarded. The pay was good. My skill set, as they say, was a match.

So, onward and upward. I reported for work and planned to have a pretty easy time of things. But soon it became clear: I hadn't planned on Jarrett.

Ah, Jarrett. First impressions: The guy was nice. Nice as could be. Also enthusiastic. Eager as a Boy Scout, he wanted to help me succeed. He wanted to help everyone succeed.

He also really liked details. And spreadsheets. And internal deadlines. I quickly realized that simply because I had a deadline that was a month away didn't mean Jarrett wouldn't be checking daily to see how I was doing.

It didn't take us long to realize the road ahead was likely to be bumpy. The more he encouraged me to do things a certain way, the more I balked. The more I urged him to allow me to do things my way, the more nervous he became.

"I like the final product," he would say. "But I need to know how you got there. I need to know your process."

"For the love of God, why?" I'd respond. And then, often, just: "No."

Looking back, I have no idea why I thought being so insubordinate was OK. I have no idea why he didn't fire me. Maybe he tried, but probably not. He was that nice.

I had bonded with Jarrett's boss, and I sought his counsel. Although Dale and I were friends, his allegiance was, as it should have been, to the department.

"Stop being so hard on him," Dale said. "My God. He's a good guy. Just do a little of what he wants. Just a little."

Maybe Dale wore me down. Maybe I was tired of fighting. Or maybe I realized that if I wanted to keep my job, I'd have to compromise. So for a project I was working on, one that had many parts, I went in on a weekend and created a spreadsheet.

I left it on Jarrett's chair. Monday morning, he stopped by to see me. I thought he was going to weep.

"This is beautiful -- amazing!" he said, "All your collateral is here. All your deadlines." And then: "Let's just brighten up the colors a bit. Here, let me help you." And he sat down at my desk and turned my spreadsheet into a work of art.

And the worm turned.

As easily as we had become adversaries, we became -- well, not adversaries. And then it became clear: We were becoming friends. And as we began to like each other more, I worked harder to please him. And as I worked harder to please him, he eased up on the busywork.

We discovered a mutual love for bad '80s music and John Hughes movies. We'd quote lyrics and dialogue back and forth. I met his little daughters, whom he often brought into work late in the day or on weekends. And I heard often about his wife, Melanie, whom he summed up this way: "I can't believe she married me."

He studied the tchotchkes with which I decorated my office, and added to my collections with trinkets here and there. We collaborated on projects, and we laughed loudly and often.

One day, working with him in my office on a project that involved a challenging client, I also realized I was learning from him. We were commiserating, and I parroted one of his frequent pieces of advice back to him: "Once in a while, it's OK to let the other guy win."

"I couldn't have said it better," he replied.

Although we had become friends, our relationship also possessed some elements that resembled sibling rivalry; he won an award for a project, but had neglected to add my name to the entry, even though I'd worked on it. I sulked.

And once, after he had given up Diet Mountain Dew for a whole year but was continuing to crave it, I decided to test him. It was his birthday, and I bought an extra-large, extra-cold bottle, tied some ribbon around the neck, walked into his office and set it down in front of him.

I heard the hiss of the opening bottle cap before I'd walked six paces. He told me I was evil, but he drank the whole thing.  

One day in 2008, Dale called me and Jennifer, another team member, into a meeting. Jarrett was already in the room.

"Jarrett has accepted an opportunity outside the company," Dale said. "He's leaving."

I started to cry.

For the next couple of weeks, I wouldn't let him talk to me. Then, one day, he sent me an email. I still have it.

"I want to tell you about this. Please," he wrote. "You'll be so happy for me. This job is perfect."

And he did, and I was, and it was.

His last day, we went to lunch. Over barbecue -- side dishes for me, ribs for him -- we laughed about our journey. I made light of things, as I often do when I'm sad or nervous. I didn't want him to go.

As we went to leave, he said, "Let's not go back to work."

He's still my boss for the rest of the day, I figured. So, OK.

We ran an errand first; Melanie had seen a door she liked at the second-hand home-improvement store, so he went to buy it for her. He was excited to surprise her and talked, again, about having "married up."

And then we just drove.

We headed up to the area north of town where he had grown up; he pointed out landmarks and told his patented "Jarrett stories" -- long, with embellishments. We stopped for ice cream. And, of course, we tuned the radio to an '80s station.

"I Remember You" by Skid Row came on. He opened the windows. The wind blew us around. We sang at the top of our lungs on the way back to the office.

As he was dropping me off at my car, I felt I needed to somehow put a cap on things.

"I was hard on you," I said. "I shouldn't have been. But we got past it. I've always wondered if maybe you looked at me like one of your projects. I was a challenge that you knew you had to try to solve."

He smiled. "Something like that, at the beginning," he said. "Now you're just my friend."

Jarrett and I stayed in touch. The last time we talked was a year ago; I wanted to tell him about my new job. He was doing well, happy at work, happy with Melanie and their girls. He was planning, always planning. Working on a deck. Creating a spreadsheet, naturally, to help Melanie pack for a camping trip.

He was Jarrett. And a week ago, unexpectedly, he died.

At the funeral, I sat next to Dale, who had so long ago urged me to cut Jarrett some slack, and I thought about all the lessons I'd learned through that experience: My way is not always the best way. Winning is not always the most important thing; above all, proceed with kindness.

And strive to possess the grace of this man who sought to win me over when I was behaving too badly to deserve to be won.

I left the church and started my car. The radio came on, and I sat in disbelief: "I'll Remember You" was just starting.

I rolled down the windows, I let the wind blow me around, and I sang at the top of my lungs.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Talking about your body parts could save your life. Really.

When I became a mother, I was determined not to use euphemisms in teaching my kids the names of their anatomical parts. I reasoned things out like this: If your elbow is your elbow but your penis is your pee-pee, eventually you're going to grow up and realize that your penis is, in fact, your penis, and you're going to wonder why your parents shrouded that particular part in the mystery of a fake name.

That strategy worked pretty well for the most part, except for the time Scott, at 2, began pointing and announcing to everyone in the grocery store, "He's a boy! He has a penis! She's a girl! She has a vagina!" And then there was the time he drew a penis on his gingerbread man at preschool much the way he had drawn elbows and a nose.

But for the most part, I was glad we had called things what they were, and neither child seemed to feel any shame or weirdness about any portion of his or her anatomy.

I grew up in much the same straight-shooting way, as did a lot of people I know; I was a kid in the "Free to Be You and Me" early '70s, after all. But it struck me this week that for some reason, as we reach adulthood, many of us seem to regress, shying away from calling things what they are. And that reticence can cause problems for some of us; believe it or not, it can even indirectly cost us our lives.

(A note here: If you're squeamish or hate it when writers volunteer too much information, you're going to hate this post, so you'll want to stop reading now.)  

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed an abnormality that I knew would need a doctor's attention. I made an appointment, but the doctor was busy, so it would take two weeks for me to be seen.

So, hypochondriac that I am, I filled those two weeks by reading everything I could about my particular issue. Of course, I ended up certain I had cancer, the way I always believe I do.

But I also was struck to learn this:

Because women are reluctant to check the areas gynecologists typically pay attention to -- and because once they find something strange, they're embarrassed to see a health-care provider about it -- many cancers of the reproductive tract are diagnosed so late that the prognosis is frequently horrible.

Let's think about what that means. Because as women, we shy away from checking parts of our own bodies -- and because we're reluctant to call the doctor's office and use the words "vagina" or "vulva" -- we risk our health. How can that be OK?

And it's certainly not just women -- according to many articles I came across, men are worse. And when it comes to digestive issues, both sexes are equally skittish; colonoscopies are such an effective tool, but because we can't bring ourselves to talk about our bathroom habits, we shy away from scheduling them.

Why is this? Chances are, it's at least partially because the puritanical ethics on which our country was founded have been passed down, intact, from generation to generation. Most of us don't consider it polite to talk about certain body parts in mixed company.

And we know the reason for that: sex. The body parts we feel uneasy talking about are the ones involved with sexual acts. And that's really ironic and really unfortunate because, unless you're truly an exception, those parts spend most of their time involved in things decidedly non-sexual. 

Who decided we can freely talk about elbows and noses but not about vaginas or testicles? If we're using those words in non-sexual contexts, what could possibly be offensive about them?

For years now, Eve Ensler's play The Vagina Monologues has been doing beautiful job of expressing what I'm trying to say here. By teaching ourselves to feel comfortable monitoring, and talking about, our own anatomies, we can only enhance our reproductive health. But hard as Ensler may have tried to change the landscape, we have a long way to go.

We're doing better when it comes to our breasts: Organizations that raise money for research have sought to de-sexualize breasts in recent years and urge a focus on breast health. Activists like my friend Bridget Pargulski tirelessly lobby legislators to legally require radiologists to indicate if a woman has dense breast tissue that could hide a suspicious mass on a mammogram. We're talking about breasts in ways that are not at all titillating, and that's certainly as it should be.

We need similar activism around the health of our reproductive organs. Here are some sobering statistics: When it's diagnosed early, the five-year survival rate for one type of cancer of the reproductive area, vulvar melanoma, is 82 percent. But because it's almost always diagnosed late, only 16 percent of women who have it actually survive five years. Similarly, according to the National Cancer Institute, by the time most cancers of the vagina are found, the mean survival rate is only 57 percent.

Both these cancers are rare. But if you have one of them, or one of your loved ones has been diagnosed with one of them, the fact that they're rare is of no consequence.

We can do better, starting with our parenting of young children; the website A Mighty Girl helps parents talk to young girls about their bodies. We "girls" who are a little older can find help from such resources as What's Up Down There? Questions You'd Only Ask Your Gynecologist if She Was Your Best Friend by ob/gyn Lissa Rankin. (And if you don't like those, just Google and find a million other resources.)

I'm not perfect when it comes to this stuff. Often, when I find something odd on my own body, it takes me a few days to muster the courage to make a doctor's appointment; in my case, it's because I always assume the news will be bad,

But as my doctor and I were finishing our conversation today, she said, "You did what you should have done; you checked your body, and you saw something wasn't quite right, and you got here right away. We can't ask for more than that."  

Sometimes that's not enough; many diseases are way too cruel to care how vigilant a person is. You can monitor yourself and still miss things; you can catch things that are so aggressive that your carefulness is of no consequence. 

But any time we can stack the deck in our favor, we need to do it. Check your body, use the words, and, if you need to, call the doctor. It's not always that easy, but sometimes, it really, really is. 

Monday, April 13, 2015

This election cycle, I'm promising a politics-free zone on social media. Won't you join me?

I am a Democrat. I'm a liberal Democrat. And chances are very, very good -- ridiculously, amazingly good -- that in the 2016 presidential election, I will vote accordingly.

And from now until November 9, 2016, that's likely the last you'll hear from me about politics.

That's not to say you won't see photos of me at campaign events here and there, and that's not to say I won't post the occasional diatribe about an issue that's important to me.

But I won't be haranguing you about my candidate and why I feel you should vote for that person; I won't be getting down and dirty in long Facebook exchanges with people whose views are different from mine. I won't post sarcastic missives about the other party's candidate, and I won't post jokes that poke fun at that person.

Why all the promises?

Leading up to the 2012 election, I was all about sharing on social media the many reasons I felt my candidate should be elected. I posted facts and figures and memes and anything and everything from Nate Silver; I cajoled and harangued and battled with friends who championed the opposition. I hurt some feelings, and my own feelings were hurt. I was "unfriended" a few times, and I put a lot of time and emotional energy into trying to convince others that my opinion was the correct one.

Don't get me wrong; I still feel my opinion is the correct one. But as I spent time on Facebook last night and saw friends' reactions to Hillary Clinton's announcing her candidacy, I initially wanted to enter the fray. But then I thought: Not this time.

Here's why: because being politically obnoxious on social media yields no return on investment. When I think of my most-diehard-Republican Facebook friends, I wonder: If I lean on them really, really hard about my candidate's wonderful qualities, will I change their minds and affect the way they vote?

And of course the answer is a resounding "no."

So, then, what would my reasoning be for being politically active on Facebook? To show others how astute and aware I am? That's not relevant; my friends would expect that of me, as I'd expect that of them. To try to incite controversy? Nope, I seem to do enough of that in real life.

When others post nasty things about the candidate I support, their posts don't make me think, "Gosh, maybe they're right, and perhaps I should change my party affiliation and vote the way that person wants me to vote."

They make me think, "Wow, that person is kind of obnoxious, and I sure wish he or she would respect the fact that we all have different opinions." 

I like to be politically active. I'll volunteer to help with my candidate's campaign. I'll be the anonymous voice behind the phone call that reminds you to vote, and I'll "like" friends' posts that remind us all to exercise our Constitutional right to do so.I'll talk enthusiastically with others who share my views, but at the office and online, I'll fly under the radar -- not because I'm ashamed or afraid, but because I'm determined to respect others' opinions the way I'd like them to respect mine.

No candidate is perfect. Jesus doesn't love you more -- at least I don't think He does -- for voting for one over the other. No elected official can win over 100 percent of the population and effect total domestic harmony. Life will not be perfect under Rand Paul or Jeb Bush or Hillary Clinton or Marco Rubio or Elizabeth Warren. We have a variety of candidates every election cycle because we have a variety of opinions, and that's as it should be.

If you want to know whom I'm supporting, you can probably guess; if not, ask me. Either way, you won't see it on my Facebook page. You may very well end up blocking me because of my opinions on books or music or dogs or running or cell-phone providers, but it won't be because I'm trashing your candidate.

Friday, April 3, 2015

I've become the dreaded "lapsed Catholic." Is Easter a good time to make amends?

This is going to be pretty personal, even for me. 

I was raised Catholic. Italian-Catholic, actually, which is like Catholicism on steroids. A lot of Mass, a lot of sacraments. A lot of religion at school. A lot of memorization. A lot of music, not much of it good; a lot of obligation. I would sit in Mass and cross my fingers that the priest would recite the second Eucharistic prayer because it was the shortest.

I didn't always pay attention. Sometimes I slipped out the side door right after Communion.

I was not a good Catholic.

I wasn't a bad kid; by today's standards, I was actually a really good one. I did what I was told. I made good grades. I respected my elders. I had to make up sins to confess to the priest when I took advantage of the sacrament of penance because, as that decent kid, I really didn't have an exciting, sinful life. 

"I was disrespectful to my parents," I'd say, not really remembering if I had been or not. The priest would tell me to do better, then sentence me to one Our Father and two Hail Marys. And that was it until the following Friday, when I'd say the same thing.

So I guess I really wasn't a bad Catholic, either. I was probably like every other Catholic child of that time. I did what I was supposed to do, what I was told to do, and believed the way the church, and my family, said I should believe.

And then I got older. And then things changed for me, as they do for many people who grow up and try to determine his or her place in the world. I began questioning, and the answers I received didn't make sense to me. "Because that's just the way things are" never, ever works, and I always want whoever is answering the question to do better.

My questions largely revolved around God's rules, whatever we understood them to be, versus human-made rules. As I look back now, they weren't hard questions, and they were stereotypical of that time: Why are women's roles in the church lesser than the roles of men? Why does Catholicism tell us being gay is a sin when it's pretty clear that people are born with genetically programmed sexual identity? Whoever came up with the idea that we can't eat meat on Fridays during Lent, and how is that a sacrifice if a person doesn't even like meat?

I continued to ask my questions of different people and in different years. During that time, I married and had my own children and proceeded to raise them Catholic. I took them to Mass. I taught religious education (!). I didn't always buy into the lessons I taught, but it was important, I reasoned, to raise my children with a religious foundation, and Catholicism was what I knew.

When my children reached adulthood, they made their own decisions about organized religion. As for my journey, when the time came for me to no longer worry about their foundations, I bowed out.

I stopped going to church except on the rarest of occasions because I couldn't reconcile the hypocrisy of attending a church that was espousing things I didn't believe. I also couldn't wrap my head around the church's handling of the sex-abuse scandal, and felt that if I continued to attend Mass, I was condoning the fact that young lives had been shattered to maintain reputations that didn't deserve to be maintained.

Here's the thing, though: I may have stopped attending Mass, but I never stopped believing, and I never stopped praying. I believe Jesus is the son of God, and I believe He died for our sins. I believe in the resurrection. I believe in God not as a giant Santa Claus, but as a being that can bring clarity and comfort. I believe in prayer, and I believe in miracles.

But I don't believe in persecution and exclusion and entitlement and hypocrisy. I believe in freedom of expression, and I believe in equality of all humans. I believe in the words of Jesus: "Love your neighbor as yourself." "Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, you do to me." I try to help people. I try to do good things. I try to make the world better. Sometimes I fail.

But I keep believing and I keep trying. And today, I heard on the radio that Pope Francis went to a prison and washed the feet of some inmates, including those of a woman. And a baby. And as I listened to the story, something in it spoke to me, and I started to cry.

I'm not sure I clearly understand the need for the hierarchy of the Papacy, but I am a fan of this Pope. I may not agree with him on everything, or even on most things, but the guy is the real deal. He clearly doesn't believe in entitlement; he's inclusive and humble and hard-working. He seems to try to help all people with whom he comes into contact, and he doesn't shun any of them, even felons or lepers ... or those who happen to be gay.

The fact that he is trying so hard to change things, even if he can't change things enough for me to feel the Catholic church is "my" church, moves me to tears. And, cue the thunderbolts: His actions also make me feel that maybe there's room for me back there, in his church, again.

I miss Mass. I miss the ritual and the tradition. I miss Communion (which I would take even though I'm divorced, because that rule is insane) and I miss ashes on my head. I miss the prayers I grew up with; I even miss the bad music. I miss the stations of the cross and I miss a context for all my prayers. 

But I don't know how it would work, exactly, if I went back, because although the fundamental beliefs are there, many differences remain. Can I compartmentalize enough to not feel like a fraud? Is it enough that I believe in the "big" things, but take issue with the details? 

I want to take baby steps, but my mother-in-law is coming for Easter, and I want to take her to Mass. Ideally, I don't want to wait till Christmas or Easter to go back weekly, but I want to feel comfortable with taking stock and working my way back gradually. 

I'm at a loss. I don't know where to start, but I do know that my stock explanation, "I'm spiritual, not religious," isn't entirely true. I miss having a church building in which I feel at home. But I also don't want to be judged as a "lapsed" Catholic. And I don't want to be lectured about my opinions and beliefs.

If anyone reading this lives in the Des Moines area and is in love with his or her Catholic church, please drop me a note and tell me why. Is it inclusive? Does the congregation reach out to the community, the city, the world? Would the people there be willing to make room for someone who's not 100 percent on board?

And one more thing: If you're inclined to judge me or others like me, do ask yourself, What would Jesus do? 

My guess is: Because he hung out with tax collectors and prostitutes, he'd probably be OK with making room in his house for a liberal Democrat who asks too many questions but really misses the off-key singing of "Let There Be Peace on Earth."

After all ... it's Easter. 

Monday, March 30, 2015

Laughing with the enemy: From "Real Housewives" to "Sister Wives" with my children's stepmother

Divorce is awful, no matter how you slice it.  No matter what leads to it, and no matter if the parties involved are better off apart, it's still a horrible thing to go through, especially if kids are involved. 

My divorce was no different. It happened 17 years ago, and it was awful; not just awful, but in the annals of awfulness, it was epic. However, the wounds are no longer fresh for either of us, and we've worked things out to the point that mistakes made so long ago aren't relevant to our lives today; we've both moved on to other marriages and other lives, and our kids, perhaps in spite of us (but I like to think, to some degree, because of us), are whole, functional, happy adults.

And here's something I wasn't expecting. In the least expected of all places -- in the trenches of my worst behavior and my most horrible mistakes and my most grievous failures as a human being -- I made a friend. She was right there with me the whole time, but not in the way one might expect.

She was, and is, my ex-husband's wife.

Her name is Deena, and she and my ex have been married for a good many years. When my kids were at her house, she helped to raise them; she's known them since they were little, and sometimes to this day, it surprises me to realize that she really does know them. When the kids were young, her place in their lives made me miserable and jealous. It didn't matter that my feelings were irrational; they were ever-present and they were raw, and they drove me to say the most hateful things. Deena became the target not only of my frustrations with my ex, but of my regrets and frustrations about myself.

Don't get me wrong: Deena was no Mother Teresa. She'd be the first to admit I wasn't her favorite person, either, and she pulled a dirty trick or two. But I think she would have been willing to extend the olive branch pretty early, if I had been willing to accept it. 

I don't watch Real Housewives, but from what my son and daughter-in-law tell me, the arguments the women have are petty and ridiculous and are exacerbated for dramatic effect. I guess I could have started that franchise, because I perfected the art of drama to the nth degree. There was no hair-pulling or knocking over of furniture, but there were wars of words. Sometimes I won. Sometimes I didn't. But my kids always lost, and that's the hardest thing to bear now.

Bottom line: I hated Deena, or believed I did, because I didn't like myself a whole lot. And because I didn't like myself, I was insecure about my most sacred role, that of mother to my kids, and I didn't want to feel as though that position was being challenged in any way. Looking back, what did I want? For Deena to be mean to my kids? To ignore them? Of course not. I just didn't want them to like her best.

I'd like to say a thunderbolt struck me one day and caused me to see the light, but what really occurred was the simple passage of time. As cheesy as it sounds, as I grew to become happier and more confident in my own skin, I was able to take a step back and see her as a person. And that person really wasn't out to challenge me, make me miserable, or steal my children. 

Things didn't become rosy overnight, and they're still not perfect; Deena and I are very different people. I'm a feeler; she's more a thinker. I work hard to be tactful, sometimes to a fault; she is very direct. I've always been an indulgent parent; Deena was independent early in life and expected the same of her kids and stepkids. As people and as parents, we're sometimes on opposite sides of the fence. But as is true in many relationships, we actually sort of complement one another.

I enjoy talking to her; in fact, as we plan my daughter Caroline's wedding, we tend to talk daily. My ex and I get along fine, but he enjoys talking on the phone about as much as my current husband does, so when any communication needs to happen, it's between Deena and me. And even the planning works out well; I have grand visions for the big picture, and she has knack for details. In addition, we have some personal things in common now; we've both been on a nutrition kick for a while, and we both run.

And most importantly, we have my kids in common. Oh, how it would have pained me years ago to say this, but my kids love Deena. They love her in a way that is not at all competitive with the way they love me; they know who their mother is. But they are grateful for and respect the time and resources she has committed to them, and the place she holds in their lives. Most of all, they love her because she loves their dad.

Step-relationships are endlessly tricky. From Cinderella onward, they've been fraught with competition and misunderstanding; it's easy to make a step-person a target or a scapegoat. But what I finally came to realize is this: Our shared feelings are what bond us. I once was married to the person she is married to; from that relationship came two children. When Deena married that man, it linked her not only to my children, but to me. 

I've often thought there should be a word for Deena's and my relationship: As we've joked, "sister wife" is a contender, but doesn't quite cut it. But whatever the nomenclature, evolving from "real housewives" to "sister wives," or whatever we are, was no small task. The relationship we have now benefits my kids, to be sure, but the truth is: It also benefits us.

What they say is true: Letting go of negative feelings is healthy and freeing. I'm laughing with the person who used to be my sworn enemy. It's possible for a cold, hardened heart to thaw, even when it's your own.  

Monday, March 16, 2015

Sometimes, it helps to look back.

March 16, 2013

When I was a little girl, a woman named Ann Bradford was our next-door neighbor. Ann was in her 40s and was a matronly woman with a tight perm and polyester clothes. I was around middle-school age when Ann showed me a picture of herself as a teenager, and I was stunned to see she had been very pretty.

I wondered for a moment why she had allowed her looks to change so drastically, but then I reasoned, "She's grown up and already has a husband and family. She doesn't have to worry about the way she looks anymore."

As much as it pains me to admit it, I've become Ann Bradford.

That's a little harsh -- I still do my hair every day and put on makeup and wear clean clothes that match. I shower daily and have tidy nails. But when it comes to my weight, I've given up. It hasn't been intentional, but it's happened.

I'm not the 600-pound woman you see on the TLC specials; I can get out of bed, and my fat doesn't hang out of my pants. But my abdomen is huge. My ankles are puffy. My wrists are fat. And I wear plus-size clothes. As much as it pains and embarrasses me to admit this, I can no longer shop in the "regular" women's department in any store.

I can't attribute the weight to anything in particular. I'm happy. I love my family. I have a good job and great friends. Sure, the past few years have brought their share of stresses; my dad was sick, and then he died. I had surgery. I changed employers.

And maybe I used all that as license to eat pancakes and drink pop and sneak Swiss Cake Rolls before bed. Or maybe I just got lazy.

Whatever the case, it's stopping now. Well, it's stopping tomorrow. Nothing magic about the timing; I simply woke up one day last week and knew I was ready.

Twenty years ago, I lost 40 pounds. And as much as I loved the result, I think I loved the discipline more. I ate clean, whole foods. I cut out pop and most carbs and sugars. I put a mental barrier between my food and everyone else's. I threw my kids in a double stroller and walked and walked and walked. And as I started treating myself with the respect I deserved, I felt good and happy and at peace.

Out-of-control eating is fun while it's happening. Going to Viva la Bamba with my husband and inhaling two baskets of chips and not thinking about the consequences is fun until you look down and see the crumbs and realize what you've done. Or until you go to Kohl's to buy a trench coat and can't find one that zips and allows you to move your arms.

My husband has never seen me thin; he met me about 20 pounds ago. I want to do this for me, but another part of me wants to be a wife who's not crabby and angry about her weight. The superficial part of me is also excited for him to see what I really look like under all of this.

Sure, I want to make a lifestyle change. I want to get off blood-pressure and cholesterol medicines and be around to enjoy grandkids. I want to be the kind of person who routinely reaches for carrots instead of Swiss Cake Rolls, and I want to kick my Mountain Dew habit for good. But for now, I just want to do this. I want the discipline and the control and the results.

I want my kids to be proud of me. I want to be proud of me.

It's been a long time coming. I'm a little scared. But mostly, I feel something has lifted. I'm no longer just stuck.

Here's to seeing what happens next.