*Ignoring the Scales

During a lively discussion among friends about weight, one of our girlfriends, the THIN one, I might add, told us the best thing she ever did was throw away her scales.  It was so liberating for her.  

"How brave," I thought. "But how does she know whether to feel good about herself or not?" I wondered.  I'm just KIDDING. Sort of.

For now, this just a mental picture I have in my fantasies.

But seriously, I pondered her words, and pictured my scales sitting on top of a heap of trash in our bin, and it made me smile.  I couldn't bring myself to do it, mind you, but just the thought of that image made me happier.  And so, for the next couple of weeks, I avoided the offending rectangular prism in the bathroom.

Each morning, I would get up, cast a glance at our scales, and then walk on by. How nice it was to just ask myself, "How have you been eating? Where could you improve?" instead of knocking myself about mentally for some arbitrary number on the dial that reflects a variety of conditions; water retention, muscle gain or loss, medication side-effects...but doesn't reflect at all on my character. Yet, that is how I'd always used it.  

In the past, the scales revealed to me my weaknesses and my flaws. They indicated whether I was in control or out of control, strong or weak, bad or good. A bonus of buying a DIGITAL scale is that it allowed me to judge myself harshly in the smallest of increments. I could determine my worth in tenths!  

So, tossing the scale, or in my case, ignoring the scale, was an act of defiance, and liberation. I was going through an emotional time, and realized I needed to be kinder to myself. 

My self-talk became more gentle, and I would suggest that I make a veggie smoothie before tackling the leftover Halloween candy. I would remind myself that I might overeat occasionally until I learn how to deal with my feelings, but that this was not the end of the world, and as soon as I started feeling better, I would increase my efforts to eat better.

Things were going quite well until I had to go to a counseling appointment. The receptionist asked the client ahead of me to step on the scales. 

"NOOOO!" my mind screamed."What in the WORLD?  They WEIGH us here? I'm going to need more than interpersonal communication counseling if she has to record my weight!"  I considered telling her she better not utter one OUNCE of my weight out loud.  I would avert my eyes.  And then I thought, ready or not, just own it. And get over it. Goodness knows I've done that enough in my life. 

So while the first client had his blood pressure taken (Blood pressure?  At a therapist's office?  Go figure.  Mine was going to be sky-high after being weighed!), I slipped off my shoes, and surreptitiously stepped onto the old-fashioned balance beam doctor's scale. 

"So glad I drank a whole quart of water on my way over here," I announced to the room, a little too loudly, to excuse at least TWO pounds of what we were about to witness, and I set the heavy metal weight about where I thought it should be, and began the fearful task of tapping the sliding weight toward the right, where the HEAVIER numbers were. Good grief. Tap...tap...tap... Well, this was not going well at all. Tap...tap...there. Well, how disappointing this particular result was to my still raw psyche. Up seven pounds from where I was when I was trying to go DOWN ten pounds.

Visions of all of my sins flashed before my eyes: Pumpkin-Spice Lattés from Starbucks, fried ice cream from Garcia's, nibbles of caramel-flavored candy corn, Pepperidge Farm Pumpkin White Chocolate Chip cookies... I HATE SCALES!!!  And then I heard the receptionist say that she wouldn't be needing my weight; not today. Whew. I scurried back over to the cold, metal scale, and nonchalantly slid the weights back over to zero, erasing any evidence of my embarrassment. Now we were back to only my having knowledge of the number. What was I going to do with this information?

I beat myself up over it for a couple of weeks, feeling TERRIBLE about the number. My birthday, numerous family celebrations, and Thanksgiving all occurred during those two weeks.  

"I'm sure this is all going extremely well," I thought. "I'm just compounding the problem with every bite of cake, every nibble of cookie, every sip of holiday drink." Every day, I imagined my weight climbing ever higher, back to my HIGHEST WEIGHT OF ALL TIME.  

Fast forward to this morning. I considered my petite friend's tossing of the scales. She simply judges her health on how well she tackles the big hill on her daily walk, how her clothes feel, and how her body is functioning. That is all well and good for her, I believe, but for me, who has always needed some sort of monitoring, I want to be able to check in from time to time to see how close my estimation is to the actual number. We "women of the Amazon" need a little reminding every now and again.

I cured myself of incessant weighing years ago. I used to weigh upon wakening, before breakfast, after breakfast, when I got home from school, after I worked out, and before I went to bed. During that period of time, I desensitized myself to the natural fluctuations of my weight. I understood better how my body was responding to water consumption, physical exertion, and eating patterns. Lately, I have lost some of my common sense approach to weight control, and need to retrain myself to eat better, and then to better understand what is going on with my weight.

So, this morning I told myself to get on with it. "Get ready to own this. You've had two weeks of being mean to yourself, now it's time to see what the reality is, and then make adjustments in lifestyle choices accordingly." I knew I would either be pleasantly surprised, or slightly overwhelmed. It was time to face the music.

Whew. I am so glad I did. My weight is down...SEVEN pounds from that day at the therapist's office. Of course, it was. I have not eaten like a madwoman...and that day I was fully dressed, minus the shoes...and remember... I'd had a full quart of water on the way to the office. No more mental abuse from myself about my habits, and no more infernal internal noise telling myself I'm off my game. How silly that I was needlessly carrying around seven pounds of emotional baggage for all of those days. Being a slave to the scale is so foolish. Now I can resume healthier eating habits, and increase the frequency of my walks.

I'm going to ignore my scales for another period of time, but I'm not going to toss them just yet. For me,  I need a little bit of accountability every once in awhile. I will continue to ask self-assessing questions, and will use the scales as one small part of assessing my health. No longer will it cast the deciding vote on whether I have worth or value. My weight is only a number; a very small part of determining my overall health, and plays no part at all in determining my value. 

Operation Accountability starts today! My scales will be a little lonelier, but I'll visit them again, just not any time soon. They're going to have to get used to feeling ignored, while I get used to taking a healthier approach to the holidays!

Ancient Chinese Secret, Huh? Master Lu Is a Good Salesman

When I walked in, I just wanted to hug Master Lu when I told him my shoulder was all better! I had taken a "stab" at ACUPUNCTURE the previous visit, and it had gone unexpectedly well. 

Master Lu was sitting at his desk and it would have been slightly awkward, though, for me to hug him, so I just thanked him profusely. He seemed pleased, if, by nodding one's head, and showing me to the treatment room, one can seem pleased.  

"Why you not come to Tai Chi?" he asked as he began inserting needles. I had wanted to; I really did, but I had forgotten until the class was half over. I reminded him that I wanted him to continue the acupuncture for appetite control and weight loss. Hey, it's worth a shot, and he doesn't charge extra for that needle by my ear.

"You need exercise."

"Like Tai Chi?" I asked.

"Yes. Tai Chi."

Of course, I do. He's a very persuasive salesman. He inserted the needles, and left me with his curt parting comment:  "Rerax."

This time I brought my iPod with me. The time creeps by at a snail's pace in there, so I thought it would be more tolerable if I listened to some of my favorite music. Maroon 5 and Tje Martin made me feel happy as I lay there staring at the faded blue carpet through the horseshoe face pillow. There were still pink tabs from used acupuncture needles on the floor. I wondered if they were the same ones I stared at last week.

I decided to try to take some pictures of the needles in my back. THAT is easier said than done, and I'm not sure he would approve of my "reraxation" technique. I took about twenty pictures with my cell phone, holding the phone up over my shoulder, trying to take pictures of my back and ear. Only five of the pictures were even slightly close to where the needles were placed.  I am just no good at selfies.

I simply wanted to show you how TINY the needles are, in case anyone thinks acupuncture is painful. I assure you; it's NOT.

In no time at all, it seemed, he turned on the light, and he started removing the needles.  

"Get up," he told me. He's not one for much conversation, until it's time to go, that is, and then the salesman in him pours it on thick.

I paid him for my visit, and then he asked if I'd thought about the product he sells in his office that promotes circulation for pain relief and healing. I'm sure I just had a dumb look on my face.  I'm not sold on it, even though he assures me, "It promising." Um, no, thanks. He explained further, "You retired. You still make money. Every month. No work. Just money. Multi-revel." Now I was certain. NO, thanks. I'm just not a pyramid scheme kind of gal.

He held up the bottle of Chinese herbs he had shown me last week for weight loss. I could feel myself weakening. I tell you; he is very persuasive for someone who is difficult to understand. I suppose I also feel some obligation to support this man who has greatly reduced my pain levels.

"How much did you say that was again?"

I don't want to even tell you how much that bottle of powdered herbs is, but I found the pricing hilarious.

"Eighty 'dorrar' twenty-five cent."  What?  Did he want to charge eighty-ONE dollars, but thought that would sound too pricey, so he tacked on the quarter to make it a LITTLE more, but not as much as $81?  Who knows?

Master Lu grabbed the front of his shirt and some of the skin under it, shook what little tummy he has with his hands, and said, "You lose ber-ry fat. Ten pounds in one month with Chinese herbs." I succumbed. I bought it. I am becoming my mother with every passing day.

Let me explain my line of reasoning. I'd already lost 3 pounds since starting acupuncture treatment. With the added benefits of six Chinese herbs I cannot identify or pronounce, I'll be simply svelte by the time the holidays are in full swing, at this rate. Then I'll just drop in after the New Year, and grab another bottle to take care of any additional poundage that results from the holiday eating frenzy. I'm a woman with a plan; what could possibly go wrong?

Don't answer that.  Let me just dwell in the possibilities for now.

P.S. Five months later, I am beginning again with my still nearly full bottle of herbal tea. It tastes like dirt, and it may not work this time, either, but I want to take advantage of anything that could help me as I attempt a thirty day sugar-free plan with my 16 year-old son. WISH ME LUCK. I'll need it. We come from a long line of sugar addicts.

P.P.S. A year later, I think I can honestly say, I only lost about three pounds using the Chinese herbs. Three pounds, and eighty-one dorrar and 25 cent.

Craziest Diet EVER!

I don't remember the sizes of clothes I wore when I was younger, but I believe even as a child, I needed the girls' equivalent to the boys' "husky" line, known as "plus size."  I was pretty aware of the implication, and I'm sure I was only 10 or so.  I was "larger than average."  Taller also means heavier.  I didn't understand that back then, and even now, I'm just starting to accept my size as just one small part of who I am.

Dieting was something all women do, or so I thought.  My mom was always eating grapefruit and boiled eggs when I was little.  There was the cabbage soup diet. The Atkins diet.  Even lately, it's been Sensa.  Exercise was jogging around the yard a certain number of times, working out with Artie Levin on TV, swimming laps, Pilates, and these days, walking. 

I just wanted to set you up to understand my mindset as a young adult.  I recall that I weighed more than I wanted to weigh.  I would kill to weigh that weight today, which was probably 135 pounds.  I hit 5'7" in middle school, so that was not a bad number.  Technically, there are no bad numbers.  Just poor self-esteem tied to numbers.  It was only a bad number on the days they weighed us in gym class.  

No one was allowed to see the scale, or hear the teacher say your weight. But friends all asked. Kids just want to know they're normal.  My friends were no different.  NO ONE weighed as much as I did.  My friends were all reporting numbers in the low 100s, and the petite girls were UNDER 100. I think my birth weight was just around seven pounds, and then I just kind of skyrocketed to the 100s early in my youth.  I was mortified that anyone would know I weighed more than all of the other girls.  Yes, I was taller, but no one really explained that to me.

SOOO...as I was saying, I found myself wanting to take off some weight. I can remember it was when I was lifeguarding in the late seventies, and I'm sure being around the leaner, thinner lifeguards had me feeling pretty insecure about my weight, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.  It's common knowledge that women should never eat less than 1200 calories on a restricted diet.  I'd never given calories any thought, so I had no clue how many calories were in ANYTHING.

I headed down to the kitchen to check out our food supply.  Freezer first.  My favorite food in the whole world is ice cream.  Hmmm...  Anyone remember "ice milk?"  Ice milk would be called low-fat ice cream these days.  Like ice cream, only a little less creamy, a little less expensive, and a little less yummy.  Remember Mama?  She was all over anything that saved some calories. (And oh, yes, I have become my mother a hundred times over!)

Our freezer contained ice MILK rather than ice CREAM. We had a half gallon of chocolate ice milk in the fridge. Only 100 calories in a half cup.  Good to know.  And how about that?  13 servings in one carton.  100 x 13 = 1300 calories.  BINGO!  I now had a plan.  I would consume one half gallon of ice milk each day, I would not reach the starvation level of 1200 calories per day, and I was just sure the weight would fall right off.

Two problems.  First off, one cannot feel well eating only one food all day long, especially a dessert, for days on end. And secondly, my parents were never going to agree to buy me 15 gallons of frozen dairy dessert products to eat each month.  As I recall, I managed to consume nearly all of that first carton, but I felt miserable.  How could something so yummy make me feel so crummy?

That, folks, was the beginning of my life as a dieting adult.  I've done many extreme things to try to drop a few pounds over the years, but nothing as crazy as the ice cream diet.  It sounds so fun, but it just isn't very practical! 

Anyone care to divulge the craziest thing you've done in the name of weight loss?  There's no judgment here.  When we know better, we do better.  Back then, I just didn't know any better!

Getting into My Jeans (originally written 2005)

     Warning:  If you were intrigued by the title, thinking perhaps this were some comment on my lack of morals, you may want to peruse the adult section of your nearest bookstore, as this particular essay may seriously disappoint.  But, if you are like me, and have ever had to lie back on your bed, suck in your gut and struggle so hard to button the fly of your jeans that you nearly wore off your fingerprints, read on and commiserate with me.
     The last bell had rung, signaling the end of another long day at school and I was sitting at my desk, shuffling through the mounds of paper that seem to continually cover any horizontal surface in my classroom.  My back hurt; my knees hurt; my shoulders hurt.  I tried convincing myself it was my age.  There was a gnawing thought in the back of my head that knew the real truth.  Healthy 39-year-old women do not have aches in every joint.  My weight was making me miserable.  The physical discomfort was one thing but the emotional pain was worse.
     I hated having to shop at Lane Bryant for dresses made with voluminous amounts of fabric that would cover my bulging body like a Coleman tent.  Heaven forbid that any of the material would get caught in one of my fat rolls!  I've never liked wearing dresses, but they were comfortable.  A short, no-fuss hairstyle, flat shoes and large pink-tinted glasses completed any ensemble.
     There was a time when I felt comfortable in nearly anything. . Growing up in the south, I wore Levi's 501 button-fly jeans like the other high school kids in the late seventies.  How I missed wearing 501s and a simple t-shirt.  This old school teacher was so far away from the school girl she used to be.
     I suppose I saw myself as the frumpy teacher in fifth grade.  Allow me to introduce you to our team.  I'm the oldest, a middle-aged mother of three.  And then there are Mike and Rhet.  They're younger and athletic; they are coaches at the high school.  On Sesame Street there is a song that they sing that goes, "Which one of these is not like the other?  Which one of these does not belong?"  That would be me.  It's not just that I'm a woman.  Those two are physically fit.  Let's be honest; they look hot.  Can I say that?  I must.  It's true.  I envy the ease with which they maneuver themselves on the playground, playing football and basketball with our kids.  The testosterone just flows at our end of the building.  There is a constant, good-natured competition between those two.
     As I guzzled the last of my Diet Coke at my desk, I could hear my teammates talking in the hallway.  This day's conversation seemed to have an unusual, almost sympathetic, flavor to it.
     "I need to take off a few pounds; I'm up to about 210."
     "Yeah, I know what you mean.  I'm at my heaviest...almost 205."
     I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair.  For once, I was glad not to be included in their conversation.  Women generally don't volunteer a lot of information about their weight, especially not in mixed company, not when the topic carries with it so much shame and embarrassment.  It didn't take me long to do the math.  I was now, officially, the heaviest member of the fifth grade team, and quite possibly, the school.  At 224 pounds, I could have wrestled on Mike's team as the heavy weight.
     That overheard conversation haunted me for days.  How could I change?  I went to the doctor to see if there were another magical pill like phen/fen on the market to help me on my way back to the land of good health.  Dr. Chappell chided, "You don't need a pill, Denise.  You know what to do:  eat less and exercise more."  Mustering up a little more determination, I set out to shed my unwanted pounds.
     A serious walking regimen got me on my way.  I would wake up early, tug on my too tight sweats and laboriously plod one mile up and one mile back down Sierra Vista Lane.  After a couple of months, I was down to 208...good progress, but still uncomfortably close to the weights of my male teaching companions.
     One weekend, while visiting my health-conscious brother during the summer of 2000, I noticed a new book on his dining table:  Body for Life by Bill Phillips.  "What's this, Eric?"
     He explained briefly that it was a way of life that incorporated a balanced diet with weight-lifting and cardio.  "Look at these amazing 'before and after' pictures."  The book showcased hundreds of people who had taken the challenge to transform their bodies with Phillips' 12 week program.  The grand prize winner, the person who made the most improvement, took home a million dollars.
     Every "before" picture showed a tired, washed-out pudgy competitor and every "after" picture showed a glowing tanned athlete with some definite muscle tone.  "Is there something in the diet that turns your skin brown?" I asked sarcastically.
     "No, but you have to admit, the tan shows off their new physiques better," Eric laughed.  I noticed they all wore bikinis or posing briefs, even in their beginning photos.  That took some guts, I thought.
     By the end of the weekend, I had devoured the book and had formulated a plan.  If all of those formerly fat, non-athletes could do it, so could I.  I didn't have any grand notions of winning a million dollars, but I believed that seeing myself in photographs would help me become more accountable and help me achieve my goals.
     I stood before my closet and considered my wardrobe options.  I could wear a bathing suit or workout clothes.  A bikini was out of the question.  Who in their right mind pays perfectly good money for a size 18 two piece swimsuit that you hope never to be big enough to wear after the picture is taken?  Not me, that's for sure.  I stuffed myself into my matronly swimsuit and lumbered into the kitchen where my teenage son Dylan looked doubtfully at me.  "Just take the picture," I sighed, as I pushed my camera toward him.  "I need a front shot and a back shot."  I smiled weakly into the camera lens.  "Take it!" I hissed through clenched teeth.


    Now I had the humiliating task of taking the pictures into town to have them developed.  Who could I trust with these photographs?  I decided fewer people could access them if I went to the one-hour photo shop.  My heart fell and my anxiety level rivaled that of a tone-deaf singer at karaoke night  as I noticed one of the district employees, a MAN, was moonlighting at the store.  With great bravado, I marched in, handed him my roll of film and winced as I strode out the door.  I comforted myself with the thought that the employees probably don't have time to really look at everyone's pictures anyway.  And if that's not true, I don't want to know about it.
     I was horrified when I got the pictures back.  I was in worse shape than I thought.  Nothing like a glossy photo to shoot down any romantic notions you had of simply having a body Rubens would have liked to paint.
     My husband had a hard time getting excited about my new plan.  He suggested I lift common, everyday objects rather than go to the expense of buying weightlifting equipment.  It was obvious to me he didn't believe we'd need any more exercise equipment to trip over once the novelty of this latest diet wore off.  I was not going to let his lack of enthusiasm dampen my spirits.
     So...some people pump iron.  This chubby mama was reduced to "pumping tin."  Tin cans filled with 16 ounces of cherry pie filling, to be exact.  When those became too easy, I moved up to boxes containing .22 bullets.  After a month or so of faithfully lifting "weights" three days a week, I convinced DelMar that I was serious.  We headed out to a neighbor's yard sale and bought a bench, some dumbbells and ankle weights.  I had graduated to real weights!
     By the time school started at the end of that summer, I had officially entered my first body for Life Challenge.  I was required to take photos (again) and fill out a questionnaire to document my progress.  I found myself mixing protein drinks in the blender, reading Muscle Media magazine and actually becoming excited about this new found world of fitness.
     The teachers noticed the changes that had taken place over the summer.  They encouraged me to continue my efforts by applauding my progress and complimenting my physical changes.  Rhet and Mike became my cheerleaders, asking about my workouts and noticing when I wore new, smaller clothes.  Mike even showed me around the high school weight room and coached my friend Margie and me on proper lifting techniques.
     The first 12 weeks came and went, and I still had a long way to go.  One thing I'm glad I didn't know when starting Body for Life was how long my transformation would take.  We all know that "slow and steady wins the race" but it was difficult not to get discouraged when my results were not as dramatic as the previous winners of the challenge.
     I recall Mr. Winn's teasing in the faculty room one day.  "Denise, if you win the Body for Life competition, promise me you'll tell people it takes longer than three months to get those results!"  I laughed because I knew it would take me MUCH longer to get to where I wanted to be.
     I officially competed in three challenges over five years.  Did I ever honestly think I'd WIN the challenge?  Well, no.  But the way I see it, anyone who improves their health and well-being is a winner.  My prizes were confidence, an increase in self-esteem and a healthier body.  Each challenge found me another 10 pounds closer to my goal.  All told, I lost over 70 pounds.
  


     On this day, I'm going to wear my 501s because they take me back to another place and time, the south in the seventies. 
At 44, it gives me that high school feeling again to know that not only will I be able to wear them with confidence, I'll be able to button them while standing up.


 

*Too Big for My (Ski) Britches

December 31, 2010

It has been such an odd holiday. Odd in that it has seemed perfect on so many levels that I have been puzzled when I'm not absolutely shivering with delight each and every moment. But my mood gets the best of me at times, and for the life of me, I can't just be grateful for everything that's right; my mind sneaks into the dark crevices around the edges, and suggests there are so many little things that aren't quite right, so let's focus on THOSE for a bit. And I do. And I become emotional, and I cry for no outwardly apparent reason.

I have loved the snow, before and after Christmas. I have loved spending time with my children. I have loved not having to work and having time off work. I have loved baking, and, oh, yes, the consequent eating. But let's not go there just yet; the added four and a half pounds is just the tip of the iceberg of one of those dark places my mind visits, and that makes things so much worse. The presents I gave seemed to be a hit, and the ones I received were so much more than I expected. I found joy in small moments; snuggling with Marley in bed, reading a lovely book about Dean Koontz's golden retriever, and enjoying the early morning hours when the house was lit only by the Christmas tree's glow.

Yes, yes, the whole holiday was practically magical. And yet. The only thing I can come up with when pondering my puzzling emotional state is that Sierra broke up with her boyfriend. And I don't understand it. 

That kid was perfect for ME. Everything looked wonderful to ME. He would be the perfect son-in-law for ME. 

Oh, yeah, but it's about HER this time; not me. And I could not quite wrap my head around the fact that I am not in control of my children, nor their choices, nor their future destiny. Hmm. Usually I am the QUEEN OF MY LIFE, and all of my subjects seem to bow to my every whim, and when they don't, I shake my head in amazement, and try to keep my mouth from gaping.

I woke up on Christmas Eve EVE, feeling blue. I wanted to talk to Sierra about it but it never seemed the right time. So we texted while watching Shrek the Halls with Bridger. Totally unsatisfactory, but that's what we did. Every time I questioned her actions, I realized they were not mine to question. She truly is an adult. A wonderful, mature, caring adult who is in control of her life. I must come to terms with the obvious; she gets to choose for herself, as I chose for myself. I am doing the best I can with what I know, and everyone else in my kingdom is doing the best they can with what they know. It's unfortunate that I no longer will have contact with the ex-boyfriend because circumstances have changed. It is very, very sad that he had such an emotionally draining holiday, but life goes on, and those two will find their own happily ever afters. I must let this go.

I realized this when I was sitting at the bank teller's window, and felt tears rolling down my cheek. That was two days ago...now I must back up and wallow in several of the dark crevice spots to which I referred.

The day before the unexpected tears hit, I'd been skiing for my third time. That morning I was horrified to discover that one just cannot cram an additional 17 pounds into a pair of ski pants that fit perfectly the previous season. Yes, I've gained some weight over the last year. And gained four and a half pounds more since this holiday began. 

That is a very terrifying prospect because I live in fear of being the extra-extra large woman I once was in 2000. And I'm well on my way. So I just balled up the too small ski pants and pulled on some comfy work out pants with lots of stretch. They'd be warm enough, right? 

Well, as we neared Wolf Mountain Ski Resort, I kept my eye on the outside temperature reading in the pickup. 23...17...14...11...I thought I'd be okay if the temps could stay in double digits.

I don't own my own equipment, so I waited for an hour and forty minutes outside, and then inside, the ski rental shop, which smelled remarkably like a high school boys' locker room. I had to record my height, and my astronomically high weight on paper for the teeny, tiny girl at the counter so she could help me get the right size boots and skis. 

I decided to stick with the "adult learner" skis. They weigh about a quarter of a ton, and are fluorescent green in color. 

"What? No vest with blinking lights? No warning beeps at intermittent intervals to alert other skiers in the area?" I joked. 

The ski tech looked out from behind his curtain of long hair, and said, "Well, that bright green color is enough, don't ya think?" 

So there is a class system here on the slopes of Utah: the real skiers, and the novices wearing the neon skis that are only about three feet long. The skis looked more like snow shoes than skis. 

I was so obviously a beginner. I couldn't even figure out how to open the boots to get my foot in; there was a secret latch hidden from view that only experts seem to know about, but I digress even more. Sorry.

My first pass down the hill was extremely FAST. Somehow I could not quite get the snowplowing technique right, and practically flew down the mountain. I'm pretty sure my wild eyes were hidden from view with my dark sunglasses, but I think everyone there knew "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride" was simply an out-of-control adult learner trying to pass herself off as a skier. 

I did a lot of falling that day, and reattaching my boots to the bindings was so hard for me. After one bad tumble, I gathered up my unattached ski, and gallumphed and harumphed across the middle of the ski hill. I was near tears. My mind was jammed with so many jostling thoughts: my daughter's break up; my big, fat butt; my freezing cold legs crusted in ice and snow; my aching muscles screaming from each attempt to get back up after a fall. Everything was taking its toll on my psyche. It took everything I had to put that infernal ski back on, and try to keep in an upright position the rest of the way down the hill, and keep my tears from spilling, but I did it. 

We called it a day after that run, and I still had not cried about any of my troubles that were eating away at my peaceful serenity during this holiday.

So the next day, I found myself with tears streaming down my face at the bank window in the truck.  All of it hit me at once. I felt sad, and I didn't think I deserved that privilege. I should be HAPPY. My life was going great, sort of, except for feeling fat, and the loss of a potential son-in-law, and being a lousy skier.

During my massage that morning, it came to me; the Serenity Prayer.  

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the strength to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."  And that's all there is to it, really.  

The actions and choices of others are not within my control; it was time to accept those, and be done with them. I have the strength to lose this weight. I've been here before, and I can get through it once again. And again, if necessary. The wisdom part just comes so slowly to me, it seems. And so, my friends, this is the rather long story of my enlightenment over the holidays. Love me through this, please. I'm learning. Slowly, slowly learning, but learning nonetheless. 

I pray we'll all overcome our troubles this new year and become triumphant over our weaknesses. I want to love more deeply, and laugh even more than I already do. With the support of my friends, I know I'll live to tell about this with more of a smile in years to come.

Happy New Year to us all, dear ones.