Do You Know How Fat You Are?

I have a doctor's appointment on Thursday and I'm kind of dreading it. It's never a party when it's time to get your annual exam, it's even less fun when you gotta go three or four times a year AND hear those stupid words, "Your weight went up again."

You could be one of those people who think, "Well, if you don't want to hear it, then lose weight," and you might find that a very feasible, very simple solution that I and others like myself may never have heard before. Lose weight. Huh. Why didn't I think of that?

And If I were in full research mode, I'd insert a lot of citations here about how, among other things, weight gain can be the result of more than just *gasp* laziness. I know. Revolutionary. Also, more citations about how weight is not the only indicator of good health. In fact, it might not even be a GOOD indicator of good health. I shit you not. And one more thing for you to ponder: losing weight doesn't automatically make you happy. It might not make you happy at all. Ever. Try Googling that shit.

Would you like to know what HAS made me happier? Therapy. My homework this week was to make a list of what I've gained since turning my attention to my overall health so that no matter what the number on the scale, no matter what my doctor's reaction, I don't lose what good I've already accomplished. This was the real revolutionary event because the process of therapy has been super beneficial to my relationship with my body.

Because I know how to eat healthy, and I DO. I like leafy greens, vegetarian meals, I don't eat a lot of fast food, and I only seldomly consume chips or soda. I like to work out and I like how I feel after a good stretching session. Yet I still have weird hangups with hunger and snacking and portion control. I'd feel a failure if I didn't get to the gym enough, and the grossness of not working out would make me feel even worse about my body and food decisions.

But I've been working on that for the last few months. It's a slow process, I'll admit, which began (aptly) with slowing the fuck down. I'd always want to satisfy my hunger ASAP. I don't know what the big rush was, and it wasn't simply because I'm a glutton. So, honestly, my first step was to sit with that hunger for a few minutes before doing anything about it.

The fitbit has also been super instrumental in keeping me moving when I'd normally be sitting. I started walking while waiting for Lucy to be finished with paddling practice, and listening to audio books so I could multitask. I get up and pace the Box Office if I've only got 37 more steps to make my hourly goal, and those steps add up, friend!

I like to tell friends that I haven't added or subtracted anything yet and I've seen and felt a difference, but that isn't entirely true. If nothing else, I've added steps and other weekly fitness habits. I've added self-compassion and self-forgiveness. I've subtracted, even if just a little, self-judgment and shame. I've set goals and accomplished them. I'm actually starting to feel a little bit good about myself, and find that I'm in a place where I can make better decisions about my fitness goals.

What Do You Think Will Happen? or The Irrational Things We Tell Ourselves

I'm at an age where many of the people I knew in high school (read: people of a similar age) are facing pretty serious health issues. Mine was cancer.

It's likely that you, lovely reader, already know this. I've written about this before.

But what you may not know is that I'm really uncomfortable talking about it. In fact, I'm really uncomfortable even thinking about it. No, actually, I really hate thinking about it, but probably not for the reason you think.

Yes, my own mortality weighs heavy. Sometimes. What I might have lost with my surgery (beyond my child-bearing capabilities) also haunts me. Sometimes. But this blog isn't about that. It's more meta:

I'm not worthy of your concern, and if I were "strong" enough, I wouldn't need it, anyway.

My friends, you might not realize just how difficult that admission is. You probably don't even realize how recently I hit upon this nugget of self-discovery. You also probably don't even know how uncomfortable it is for me to not just delete that sentence-- this entire blog-- and find something else to write about. Something easier. Something more upbeat. Something you can dance to.

This, I fear, will be messy.

I'm not going to tell you how many friends of mine are battling or have battled cancer in the last year. It's a dismal number and those aren't my stories to tell, anyway. And while I know that no one's journey is "typical," I think theirs are and mine isn't and that's why they're entitled to empathy and compassion and I'm not.

Yet I also believe that if I can learn to embrace what I've been through and truly own it, if I can tell my story to anyone myself with honesty and without apology, I can actually live with more humility and openness.

When I speak to people about what I want to do with my life, I don't know what career I'm looking for. But if you get me talking, I'll start to tell you that stories are powerful, and that if we shared more of our personal narratives, we may just find ourselves more connected to each other and less lonely. Our visions of the world are skewed by our own experiences and biases, and sometimes it's hard to see beyond our own little worlds. And if you're anything like me, you tend to believe you're in a binary world of yes/no, right/wrong, always/never. Combine that black and white mentality with a myopic worldview, and I get all kinds of anxieties, fears, and loneliness.

But even now I hide behind words. These last few paragraphs have very little meaning. I've learned to weave narratives together, to write essays that connect thoughts to close readings, to show and not tell. I've been told by more than one writing teacher to draw out my arguments and conclusions. I've been taught to tell a story.

What I'm trying to do is tell the truth. About myself. And me? I'm scared of talking about myself. I'm scared of talking about not the cancer itself, but the confusion that surrounds my diagnosis. I'm afraid of asking for the space to talk about it because it will make me look like I'm simply looking for attention. I'm afraid I'll look crude, selfish, and childish.

Oh, friends, I can heap on the pejoratives, and I can guarantee you it's not because I'm fishing for platitudes, however sincere I think they may be.

This is me practicing honesty.

I'd like to say that I'm practicing in the name of world peace, but really, I'm more selfishly motivated. If we are to connect more authentically, you and I, then I need to be more comfortable with myself. Being more comfortable with myself will (eventually? hopefully?) lead to greater joy and satisfaction in my personal life. It will help us to become closer, share in a mutual joy and satisfaction, and (eventually? hopefully?) spread that joy along to others in our world.

Mahana often forces me to say the stupid, irrational things I think by asking me a simple, unassuming question, which is usually, "What do you think will happen?"

I'm afraid you'll think I'm seeking attention and foolish. I'm afraid you'll think I'm being melodramatic and weak. I'm afraid you're already bored and that will reflect badly on me as a writer and friend. And even though intellectually I know that even if you think those things we can still be friends and we can still respect each other and nothing bad is likely to happen to me, the underlying fear is that you'll think I suck.

And I didn't even need Mahana to prompt me to admit to my stupid thing.