KJ Living Lively

As may or may not be clear in the subtext of this blog, my husband (wow, that still seems strange) and I are very much in to self-development. We started off doing things together, but about a year and a half ago, I started doing programs geared more towards women and he, as you might guess, didn’t.

One of the cool things about doing things together is simply we like spending time together and since self-development weekends or sometimes even weeks, usually push at one or more of one or both of our hidden buttons. Then again, that’s why they’re called self-development. It’s a good opportunity for us to work through those things together – that is, if we’re together.

One of the cool things about doing things apart, however, is that we’re pulling a larger variety of ideas into the couple. And when we relate the information to each other after the fact, it’s a good chance to integrate the material. It’s true that the best way to learn something yourself is to teach to it someone else. Trust me on this one.

During the last session of a year long program that M attended, his coaches introduced something called family constellations (which is apparently some sort of family systems thing). We spent one evening talking this through. I must admit that I was initially turned off, because they use terms like the victim, the perpetrator, and the hero. (Other similar systems, I even more recently found out, use similarly cheesy terms: firefighter, manager, and exile.)

I’m totally oversimplifying this, but according to the model as M understood it, in order to be free (or to have freedom in your life) you, as the victim, must forgive the perpetrator. And in order to do this you must first acknowledge that the conditions that you grew up in were absolutely perfect for the life that you have now.

Caveat: that’s my understanding of his understanding. (Have you ever played Gossip? In other words, I may have totally screwed it up, but I found meaning it in nonetheless.)

Okay, I was trying to explain this to a friend of mine and her face pretty much seized. Once she was able to get her teeth unclenched, she managed: “We’re going to have to come back to that one.”

My own way to avoid dealing with this was to assume that I had nothing to forgive. I mean, my parents didn’t starve or beat me or anything like that….. I looked at my shadowy places; no grudges there.

Then I happened to read a blog post that I wrote not a few months ago, nor even a few weeks ago, but a few days ago.

I quote: “Would I have preferred to have grown up skinny? Absolutely.”

Hmm, that doesn’t sound like perfection. And if I was willing to cast my parents in the role of perpetrator and, even harder still, myself in the role of the victim…. Maybe I owe someone an apology for holding a grudge, even one that wasn’t openly acknowledged. Maybe I owe someone some forgiveness, because if I have a secret grudge, might they not be carrying around some secret guilt or at least some degree of responsibility? Responsibility, if my childhood was absolutely perfect, that is misplaced. And how much better would my relationships with 1) my parents, 2) myself, and 3) my body be if I could clear – either energetically or face-to-face all of this hidden resentment/blame and misplaced responsibility/fear.

Note: know that I hate the terms victim and perpetrator. When I think about myself being a “victim” it doesn’t seem to ring true, because I had agency. And I also don’t think of my parents as perpetrators, because when I think about them being “perpetrators” I tend to think of negative intent and I know that there was no negative intent on their part. Having said that, I am going to go ahead and work within the metaphor.

So here it goes. Why were the conditions of childhood obesity perfect?

1) Just because someone is thin when they are young, does not mean that they will be thin later in life. In fact, most of the super thin healthy people I know now are super healthy and thin because they were overweight at some point in their life. And most of the overweight unhealthy people I know were thin when they were young. Part of the reason they’re struggling (or not) now is because they never had to develop the habits or they’re not identified with their weight, which may or may not have significant consequences on their health. One could say, and it wouldn’t be far from the truth, that part of the reason that I am so healthy and weight conscious (which can be both good and bad) is because I was obese as a child. So, was it worth 16 years of fat to have 70 years of normal weight (assuming I inherited my grandparents’ longevity gene?) Absolutely. Not only do I forgive you, I thank you.

2) Whether it was the result or part of the cause (or both) of my ever expanding girth, my sister and I spent more time in libraries than on playgrounds. My mother would trundle us up an city buses and we’d go to the central library in our towns every week in the summer, where we would check out the maximum number of books, which I believe was ten…each. During those summers, sitting underneath window air conditioners or box fans, and probably eating homemade chocolate chip cookies and ice cream (or Oreos dipped in milk) I developed a love of books, not to mention words. When my sister and I finished our ten books each, usually by Friday, we’d spend the rest of the week making up stories or writing our own. These habits, just like the ones regarding health that I developed after my sixteenth birthday will last a lifetime. And, let’s be honest, they served me well. Can anyone say tenured faculty member at an Ivy League Institution? Thank you.

3) And because I was chubby (cough) at a time when most teens weren’t, I also didn’t draw unwarranted (note that I didn’t say unwanted) attention from boys until I was well into my upper teens. And I didn’t start experimenting until into my 20s. It’s true that I had a slew of crap relationships well into my mid twenties (and then another batch in my early thirties), but i retrospect, I was just learning what most of my skinny peers had learned in their teens. If I hadn’t been slow of the mark, due to my weight, I might have married early on and I wouldn’t have met my beloved at the exact moment and time when we could be together as we are now. So again, not only do I forgive you (whether the you is my parents or myself), I also thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Now, I could go on, but I think these are the big three. And, as I said, I really hate the term victim, so I want to move on to not-victim as soon as possible. I take full accountability for my actions, for every Little Debbie treat eaten in the closet of my Grandmother’s house, all of it, because if that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be me. And, you know what? After years of self-development, I love me. Every part of me. Even those that I used to despise.

So, again, thank you.

P.S. Just to lighten the mood, this, more than any other piece of “art,” surmises my attitude toward the word, “Victim” – Enjoy.

Every October or November, I pull out my sweater collection and I think, ugh. Why are these suddenly too short, too long, too ugly, too boring or just too not what I want to have on my body? It never fails. In all fairness, I do have two sweaters that have survived the annual purge, not just once, but multiple times: a black sweater from the GAP and a grey one from Banana Republic. In fact, I bought them both the same year: in 1997. Pretty good, huh?

Now there are also a couple of recent acquisitions that also made the cut – like this super cool textured sweater that I got God knows where (probably someplace cheesy like Kohl’s or TJ Maxx as shopping is limited in my neck of the woods) and a couple of cardigan-like things (one brown, one orange, one turquoise, one brown, one black, and one red).

But I really wanted sweaters.

You know, the kind you pull over your head and make your hair go all over the place. The kind you layer over soft t-shirts and wear over jeans and short skirt with wool leggings. You know, those kinds of sweaters.

So this year, instead of making my annual pilgrimage to Kohl’s or TJ Maxx (this time not because they’re cheesy – see above – but because they’re closed due to flooding) or driving an hour or two to the nearest mall, I headed to the local community center. I’ve written about this place before.

I decided to go see “if they had some sweaters.” I walked out with two garbage bags of clothes – so much for my chosen goal of lightening up. The only saving grace is that all proceeds go to help feed, clothe, and shelter people in the community…or at least that’s what I keep telling myself anyway (and anybody else who might see me carrying around two trash bags of clothes!)

So, to the degree that I remember the haul, here’s what I got:

1 black sweater (Banana Republic)
1 black turtleneck (Chico’s)
1 red sweater (Ralph Lauren)
1 purple sweater (Charter House)
1 sable sweater (The Limited)
1 brown sweater (tags still on)
1 long sleeved pullover shirt, lace (J.Jill)
1 long sleeved button up shirt (J.Jill)
1 pair of carpenter pants (Gap)
1 red fleece (??)
1 (more) red sweater
1 (more) brown sweater (American Eagle Outfitters)
1 killer jacket (Coldwater Creek)
and….

1 slinky black skirt.

Now, it would be one thing to just tell you that I got all of this stuff for less than $50. (Compare this to the $180 shopping spree that I witnessed from my little sister, who got one pair of jeans, two t-shirts, a sweatshirt, a handful of underwear, and some earrings.) But to stop there wouldn’t do justice to my shopping experience.

On a whim, I went back into the co-ed changing room and slipped into said slinky black skirt. It is one of those garments that has two zippers. One at the waist, so that you can put it on. And one at the foot, so that you can 1) get into a car or 2) go to the bathroom while you’re wearing in. I slide both zippers up; it fits like a glove and, despite that I’d paired it with winter boots and a blue fleece, I must say that it looked pretty darned good.

Just as I decided that, yes, this skirt was me, I reached around to unzip the back, when, lo and behold, I realized that the zipper that zipped so easily going up was stuck. I’m not talking a little stuck, but a lot stuck. It literally wouldn’t budge. I tried my left hand. I tried my right hand. I held it away from my body. I pulled it up. I straightened it out. I turned around (for good measure). I turned it around. I think I may have prayed. I most certainly laughed.

And I’m not sure if it was anxiety or just my 41 year old bladder having a good joke, but all of a sudden, I had to pee.

Did I mention that there’s not bathroom in this store? At least not one that’s open to the public?

So let’s recap: I have on a skirt that requires the wearer to take itsy bity steps. Said skirt has a zipper that’s going nowhere. I have to pee like a race horse at this point (don’t you love how the mind and body work together on these things?) and there’s no bathroom. Oh, and the only other person in the dressing room is a guy, who already thinks I was hitting on him when I asked him whether a particular shade of lavender made my skin look yellow.

(I swear, he looked like I’d asked him to loan me $100. Blink. “Who, me?”)

Given our earlier encounter, I didn’t figure he’d be up to wrestling me out of a skirt….

So, I do what any self respecting thrift store shopper does. I grab everything up, including the pants I walked in with. I march up to the cashier (very slowly, mind you, because even with the lower zip done, this skirt, unlike my boots, were not made for walking).

Did I mention I had to pee – badly? Very badly.

Once there, I tear off the tag with as much dignity as I can muster and hand it to the cashier. “I can’t get the zipper down on this skirt, so I think I’m buying it.”

He looks me up and down. “It looks like it fits pretty good to me.”

Bladder clenches. I unclench me teeth and try to smile.

“That’s not the point,” I say, trying not to breath or make any sudden moves and inadvertently fall over.

“Do you think you’re going to be able to fix it?” he asks as he folds my other purchases.

Deep breath, as quickly as I could, willing him with my eyes (and my treacherous bladder) to pick up the pace. “With a pair of scissors maybe,” I mutter just about the time I realize that even if I do make it to a public bathroom in time, it’s not entirely clear that I will be able to get the skirt up over my hips to do anything once I’m there.

‘Shit,’ I thought, only to hear my inner child who is delighted for whatever reason by my adult discomfort, chuckle, ‘That too.’

“Well,” the cashier says thoughtfully (that is, slowly), meticulously (read, slowly) straightening the Gap pants before placing them (slowly) in the 3-gallon clear plastic bag without meeting my eyes, “if you really don’t think you can fix it, maybe we should just call it even.”

I was so stressed out at that point, I’m not even sure if I remembered to be grateful.

He sums me up. I toss my money on the counter, promise not to break anything upon my return, and hop to the car.

Once in (a maneuver worth it’s own post, but let’s suffice it to say that the bottom zipper needs to be about 6 inches longer and I’m really beginning to understand how this lovely garment ended up in near mint condition at a community thrift store), I drive like a demon to my office. I get out without falling out (also probably worth documenting), hop to the bathroom, and without going into too many gory details, when all is said and done I try it one more time and – wouldn’t you know it? – the zipper slides down as easily as a warm knife moves through butter.

Unbelievable.

And believe it or not, I actually felt guilty about cheating the store out of the $3.25 for the skirt, which I may or may not ever wear again….

Regardless.

I feel like I have completely gone off an a tangent here, so here are the takeaways, assuming, that is, you’re still with me.

If you need (or want) to completely revamp your wardrobe, community centers or thrift stores are one option. Not only are they fun (actually, they sort of remind me when my father used to take me to the flea market when I was a child), they are cheap, and, if all else fails, a potential source of embarrassing stories with which you can regale both friends and families.

Oh yeah, and in the face of serious wardrobe malfunctions, you might even score some free clothes

I’m taking a risk by saying what I’m about to say or, rather, to disclose what I’m going to disclose. It feels particularly risky because there are a number of exes who read this blog – not only my exes, but my new husband’s exes as well.

About a week ago, I went for a long walk with a friend and about 3/4 of the way through it, she laughed nervously and blurted out: “I’ve stopped showering.”

What?

She went on to explain that she had stopped showering. In fact, she was down to pretty much once a week, though she assured me that she didn’t smell bad. And that her hair actually looked better when she only washed it once a week.

Okay.

To each her own.

And given that her hair did look pretty darned good, who am I to judge?

Yesterday I came home from a day of running errands and when Michael saw me he said, “Didn’t you sleep in that last night?” The words (and the night before and the night before that) hung in the air between us, unspoken.

I thought about it; and much to my chagrin he was right.

I also hadn’t taken a shower in three days.

Granted, I’d been working – hard. But that’s no excuse to go back to graduate school levels of hygiene (though I will swear to my dying day that I didn’t smell, either, though I will admit that my hair didn’t look nearly as good as my friend’s).

So last night, I took a shower, washed my hair (my grandmother is turning in her grave at the thought of any granddaughter of hers washing their hair at night) and fell asleep, exhausted, on a damp towel, dressed in a t-shirt (albeit a clean one) and a fleece.

This morning, I woke up feeling better than I had in, oh, three days. Go figure.

I also got up and, gasp, got dressed.

I pulled on a new pair of Gap Carpenter jeans (there’s a story there as well) and a new red sweater that is so friggin’ comfortable that I feel like I’m wearing a sock. It’s great. Not only would my grandmother approve – as she loved red – it’s so much better than sitting around in the same clothes that you slept in, and sat around in the day before, and so on….

So, what’s going on? What is about winter that reasonably outgoing women – reasonably successful women – stop showering, stop dressing not only for decency, but for pleasure/entertainment? And as I’ve heard from other women who live where I live, stop shaving their legs?

1) It’s cold (at least where I live) and sometimes staying in your clothes is simply more comfortable than changing them.

2) Today marked the end of Daylight Savings Time. Although I actually appreciated the extra of work time that comes along with Spring Forward/Fall Back today, it also means that the days are getting shorter. More to the point, people who live in the region of the country where I live (particularly if you are a transplant, like many of us are) have a tendency to get depressed.

For me (I am not speaking for my friend) my lackadaisical approach to appearance and, admittedly, hygiene, was a warning sign. Essentially, as we continue to barrel into winter, I need to start taking better care of myself instead of engaging in a marked lack of self care.

From now on, no matter how cold it is: shower, clean clothes, and accomplishing something, even if that something is nothing more than spending an hour dancing in the living room accompanied by Tori Amos and being gawked at by a very silly cat. Hopefully if I can manage those three things, everything else that needs to get taken care of will follow.

Have you ever been to a women’s retreat?

I’ve been to a couple recently. They’re interesting. The energy there is totally different from anything I’ve ever experienced anywhere else. It’s soft. It’s powerful. It’s feminine. It’s sensual. It’s warm.

And having seen a recent set of photographs that were taken at the event – there’s a tremendous amount of body love. Never have I seen so much cleavage, so much form-fitting clothing, so much skin, jewelry, scarfs, scents, and curves. It’s really amazing.

I had the benefit of actually staying at the retreat location with the two leaders and three other women.

The following morning, two of the women did yoga on the deck, one plugged in, one walked around looking at the books and objects of art lost in her own thoughts, one did I know not what, and I took the opportunity to break out my travel hoop and do a little dancing.

The space was perfect. The room, cavernous. The sunlight, cutting into the room from a variety of angles. The views, mountains on one side and the ocean on the other. It really was magical.

As it often does, the hula hoop tends to draw a crowd. And you can literally see the little girl in every woman as she reaches for it and gives it a try. One of the women, I’ll call her B, was quite good. In fact, I shot some video of her hooping in her nightie, which happened to complement the hoop perfectly (what was it that I was saying about women’s retreats?)

Conversation turned to the health benefits of hooping – both physically and mentally – and when B said that it was a really good core workout, I actually pulled up my tank top to show her my new ab definition. Given the pro-body, self-love vibe of the weekend, her reaction was not one that I expected.

“Wow,” she said. “Were you really overweight?”

It took me a minute to figure out how she had made that – what I considered to be – intuitive of a leap and then I remembered.

Oh yeah, I have stretch marks.

I used to hate my stretch marks. I was so self-conscious of them. I thought they were so ugly.

I had forgotten about them. To the point that when a women with my hoop in a turquoise nightie pointed them out to me, I literally drew a blank. Oh, yeah. I used to weigh 232 pounds and I gained 40 of that 232 in about a two year period. A period in my adolescence where the skin couldn’t quite keep up. Hence, the stretch marks.

How could I have forgotten? I look at my stomach every day, though obviously that’s no longer what I see when I look in the mirror.

Oh yeah, I have stretch marks.

It reminded me of a time when I had first gotten naked with a new lover and he said, “Wow, how long have you had those stretch marks?”

My answer, as I pulled my clothes back on and headed to the door: “Long enough to know that only an asshole would ask me how long I’d had them.”

Today, with a little more self-acceptance than I had then, I’m sitting in a tank top – rucked up so that I can see my stomach.

Oh yeah, I have stretch marks.

But under the stretch marks that have been there long enough to have faded to almost nothing but still catch the light like silver fish in a pond, I have a lot of muscle. And with that muscle, the strength to keep myself up right, the strength to protect my lower back, the strength to allow me to do any number of yoga poses, the strength to dance for an hour (or sometimes more) with a weighted hoop….

Oh yeah, I have stretch marks.

And if I ever get to the point of wearing a bikini in public, I may actually paint them. Not so that they can fade away even further into my skin and into my past, but in bright, bold colors, for the entire world to see.

Hell yes, I have stretch marks.

They are a testament to where I’ve been.

They are as much a part of me as my eyes, my nose, or my fingers and though I used to think them hideous, they have their own unique beauty.

Would I have preferred to have grown up skinny? Absolutely.

But given that they’re here, I wouldn’t change the learning they’ve brought me for the world.

I have written three different posts.

The first two were just not anything near what I wanted to say.

The third one was close, but not quite. However, I thought it was good enough.

Apparently WordPress had different ideas….

When I finally find my voice, you’ll be the first to know.

I was out to dinner last night with Michael and Don – Don will be marrying us in 9 days, so we figured we should get together and hash out of the remaining details. As we were waiting for our table, I man grabbed me by the waist and scooted by. As he did so, he whispered in my ear, “I LOVE your blog.”

I was like, “What?! What blog?” And then I remembered, that yes indeed, I do have a blog. And despite my serious lack of attention to it, I love it too.

When I first started writing, I had something to say everyday, if not twice a day. Losing weight was literally at the fore-front of my mind. I wouldn’t say that I was obsessed, but I was overly interested. Something’s changed. I’m not sure what or why. I’m not sure if it’s the thousands of dollars that I have pumped into self-development, or the fact that my job responsibilities have grown almost exponentially. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve done so many cleanses that require so many different food choices that I have lessened my attachment to any particular thing or style. I’m not sure if it’s the cultured vegetables that I eat three times a day, which to tell you the truth, are the best cure for food cravings that I’ve ever come across. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I have given up punishing cardio (though I still take an almost sick amount of pleasure in counting calories) in favor of daily yoga and hoop dance and, when the weather’s nice, walks around the pond accompanied by either my favorite female vocalists or a friend from work. I’m not sure whether I have finally – without realizing it – achieved the tagline for this blog.

The newest insight from holistic healthcare practitioners is that you have to have balance in your life in order to successfully lose weight. That means your hormones, your brain chemicals, your nutrition, your digestion, and the one thing that most of us are quickest to ignore, our lives. When you have pleasure and accomplishment in your life in equal parts, as well as work and recreation, your body – apparently – knows what to do to be healthy.

Despite that I am a new chair, a chair-elect, chairing a search committee, planning a wedding, getting married, and have deadlines out the wazoo, I’ve only had one night of stress eating. Ironically, it happened last night, after someone said to me: “I love your blog,” and I realized – appearances aside – I did too.

As I mentioned in the previous post, it’s hard to write about your life when it’s going wonderfully. One, it seems like you’re bragging. Two, we humans have the unfortunate tendency to bond over adversity rather than celebration. Three, when you’re busy celebrating, the compulsion to write about it disappears. That said, I have a lot to say about living a balanced life and I will be sharing it here. Not necessarily as advice for others, but as a reminder to myself.

In the very first post, I wrote that I was going to blog in order to remind myself what I know is true. It seems that starting from a place of love, gratitude and peace is as good of a way to start as any.

Namaste.

I started a cleanse today. So far so good.

Just so you know, there is a ten day component, a fourteen component, and then the rest of your life component (more on that later).

But I thought I would post the pre-cleanse questionnaire that my excellent friend, Kelly Cornell sent me.

How are you feeling right now? What kind of shape is your body in? How are you feeling emotionally/mentally?

Right now I feel good; I feel strong and optimistic. I’m excited about doing this cleanse. I look around at so many different areas of my life (my car, my office, my closets, my desk) that have just exploded and realize that I need to cleanse and de-clutter in every area of my life. The school term is over and I am feeling light and excited for summer. I am invigorated – physically, mentally, emotionally. And even though I am thicker through the middle than I have been in a long time, I am in love with my body. I’m not sure when that happened or why. But it’s a glorious place to be. I am not sure how my blood work is, but I am feeling better and I continue to make healthy choices designed to support my autoimmune system and, thus, protect my thyroid and central nervous system.

What is motivating you to start this cleanse?

At the most shallow level, my upcoming wedding. However, at a deeper level, there are certain things/behaviors that I have just never gotten the hang of. For instance, being present with my food, eating reasonable portions, eating slowly, properly chewing my food, and not stuffing my emotions. I can go for periods and have some success, but these things have not become part of my identity. Sort of like yoga and meditation I’m hoping that taking this time to do this cleanse – and to do it right with all of the journaling and self-care that implies will help me implement these things into my life once and for all so that I no longer struggle to remind myself, but, rather, they are second nature.

What do you hope to accomplish through this cleanse?

To build a more sacred relationship with my food and my body. To break the sugar addiction and my tendency to overeat, to eat when I am not hungry, and to stuff my emotions. I also hope to make substantial progress in terms of healing my immune system and safeguarding my thyroid function. Of course, I’d also love to drop ten or even twenty pounds in the process, but that really seems secondary to these other goals – and that’s the first time in my life that I could honestly say something like that. I feel like that the weight is just a symptom of all of the other things in my life that are out of balance.

Make a commitment right now to complete this cleanse. Set your intention and sum it up in one simple affirmation (Ex. Today I make the decision to take my health into my own hands.”)

Today I make the decision to love and cherish my body, from the inside out.

I’ll keep you posted.

So I’m on day three of my journey to reclaim my body and I’ve noticed a couple of things:

1) Change (mental change, that is) happens quickly. Although I was completely bummed out on Sunday, I have been having an amazing three days.

2) I’ve unfrozen my fatness. What I mean by that is that I’m not thinking about myself as fat, but rather as carrying more weight around than I want to be. That’s huge. When you’re stuck, there can be no movement.

3) In a previous post, I mentioned that I was trying to learn to appreciate the now. Well, I can sum up my efforts there in one word: cleavage! I actually have cleavage! And for someone who was in a nearly A just last summer, that’s a pretty big deal. (But don’t you worry, before I got too attached to the idea of natural curves, I went and checked out the local selection of push up bras. That way when my own go away again, I’ll know exactly how to get them back in a way that doesn’t involve the words chocolate or peanut butter).

4) I’ve also been adding some HIIT into my cardio routines. It’s amazing how much of a kick that puts in your day. I only have a few words to say on that: I am not P90X worthy. And that’s okay…at least for the moment.

I live in a cold climate.

So, as I have gained and lost weight over the last 6 months (see any of the previous posts with the word thyroid in the text), I have used the climate as an excuse for covering up and hiding. I’ve found myself becoming the queen of layering. Where I used to wear cropped, close fitting tops, my closet now hosts a veritable smorgasbord of long sweaters, shawls, etc. Trust me, if it covers my tummy, I have one.

Because I live in a cold climate and winter has stretched on from 5 to 6 to 7 months, it’s been pretty easy to pretend that I’m just cold and not just ashamed of my expanding physique. However, at home, the temperatures are beginning to climb and I am about to head south – and not South as in Kentucky, but Southwest as in Arizona. The highs are going to be in the 90s – every day.

I wonder how well that cold weather excuse is going to hold up?

Last night as I was packing my suitcase, I found myself trying on clothes and discarding, trying on clothes and discarding. The 4s simply don’t fit. Okay, that’s fair. But interestingly enough, some of the things that I had bought ages ago (and never had the courage to wear either because of the pattern, the color, the length, or the cut) looked pretty darned good. That is, for someone who is not ashamed of the fact that they have curves. For someone who is okay with her body and owns it.

In fact, a lot of these more form fitting clothes (curves and all) looked a heck of a lot better than some of those sweaters I’ve been shlepping around in all winter. Though, in all fairness, most days I really was cold!

So here’s the deal. I only packed clothes that I might not have the courage to wear in my home town. Why? To push myself. To not give me a choice in the matter.

But the bigger why is why won’t I wear these at home? I stand in front of the mirror and think, “I can’t wear that! That’s not me! I would never wear that!” But you know what? It’s less about what I look like in them objectively and what I think I should like, which is much more subjective.

Michael and I have made a deal that we will always look out for each other’s best interests and to trust that any criticism, comment, suggestion, or observation is in service of that goal. I trust him to help me outside of my comfort zone and to make sure that I don’t get too carried away in the process.

My suitcase looks like a paint bomb went off inside – it’s a literal explosion of bright colors, soft, smooth materials, and dresses. Lots and lots of dresses.

I figure that just like Vegas, whatever happens in Phoenix, stays in Phoenix. However, if being a girl – a girly girl who accepts and loves her body regardless is as much fun as I think it’s going to be…who knows what may happen.

I have grown quite attached to my morning smoothie – my fairly large, green, raw, cold smoothie. I have one every morning. Sometimes I have one in the afternoon as well.

Yesterday, however, my acupuncturist (who also specializes in Chinese medicine and nutrition) starting talking about “dampness.” Though I had never heard of such a thing, he assures me I have it. And upon a little (several hours actually) of reading, I found reference to every single symptom that I have been struggling with for the last year or so. And on the foods to avoid list: cold food and/or raw food. And on the list of things to add in: brown rice (the very thing that my southern California based naturopath recently advised me to avoid).

All of these conflicting reports make my head hurt. Though, as Michael so lovingly pointed out, finding the nutrition system that’s right for you is a journey and since you’re not dead yet, you’re still on it.

You know what the funny thing is? Everything that I love and think that I can’t live without if it were to be taken away ends on the avoid list. Three weeks ago it was rice (which I am going to add back in, because when I took it out it did funny things to my body), then it was herbal teas (at least the ones with hibiscus), and now it’s my raw smoothie.

I don’t think raw is completely out, but maybe just out during the winter months, which, admittedly, in New Hampshire lasts about 6 months…this year, closer to seven.

Apparently cleaning up “dampness” is a slow process, so I won’t be expecting miracles anytime soon. However, if any come my way, you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime, less raw food (sob!), fewer smoothies (double sob!), and more brown rice cereal with loads and loads of cinnamon (which, somehow, seems like poor consolation).

P.S. Notably, this is not the first practitioner who has talked to me about the heat/cold properties of food and why I may or may not be a good candidate for raw. However, given that he’s been able to rid me of things that Western medicine had completely failed to solve, I’m willing to take the risk and, once again, turn yet another corner on diet and nutrition.

I logged on to my blog this morning and realize that it’s been two months! Really? It doesn’t seem like it, but the date post doesn’t lie.

It’s not that that I stopped thinking about my body or my weight, but something definitely shifted after that last nostalgic lament for what once was. I continued to take my thyroid medication, but I also added in meditation to sooth the over active immune system. I have weekly meetings with an acupuncturist and biweekly appointments with a chiropractor. I’ve been walking outdoors (yea sunshine!), consuming more essential fats and avoiding not just wheat, but all grains.

I tasted peanut butter the other day and it was disgusting. And now that I am tossing chia seeds and a quarter of avocado into my entirely hemp based green smoothie (no more chocolate rice powder, given rice’s status as a grain), I know longer crave tahini or almond butter (though I still enjoy them).

I exercise every day. I’ve pulled out my iPod with my favorite spinning mixes and I hop on the nordic track in the living room for anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour. Three days a week I do kettle bell swings and other Tim Ferris endorsed exercises. Usually around noon I go for a walk around the pond behind my office. And I park my car about 15 minutes away from main campus to enforce another 30 minute hike.

I eat lots of homemade black beans, lentils, and other sources of lean protein. I’ve started eating eggs again much to Michael’s chagrin. I am mostly dairy free, with the exception of a bit of goat feta here and there. I rarely eat sugar (usually no more than 32 grams per day), I never eat fruit (unless it’s the occasional dried mulberry or I sneak a sip – which is actually quite common – of Michael’s smoothie which also contains gojis and blueberries). Wine is back in, however, and I find myself enjoying a glass or two of red wine every week. And tea. Lots of tea, sometimes enhanced with an essential oil that can literally take you out of your body and cause all of your troubles to disappear. It’s amazing.

I’m teaching and coaching, but not researching. And, interestingly and somewhat surprisingly, I am absolutely loving it. My only sorrow is that I worry that I should be researching and I, not surprisingly, have things to do. Things that are due. But I’d rather take my weekends off, make love with my fiance (yes, we’re engaged), and go for long walks. I’d rather clean the house and cook for the week, and write in my blog, and plan my wedding. And try on clothes – clothes that fit again, by the way, even though I’ve stopped bitching about my weight, stopped beating myself up, and obsessing. Or maybe it was because of those things.

Maybe I’m just finally living a balanced life. Whatever it is that I’m doing, I’m just going to keep doing it. I’ll keep you posted.

“It is better to have loved and lost then to never have experienced love at all.”

I’m not so sure.

The last 7 months have been the most frustrating of my life when it comes to my body. I see numbers on the scale that I remember being thrilled about – when I was on my way down. But it seems like every week is a new adventure in pain…even if it is only in the form of five pound increments or strange and bizarre symptoms all related to a suppressed autoimmune system.

I think I wrote previously (a testament of how long it has been since I’ve been here) that in August I was diagnosed with autoimmune thyroiditis – or Hashimoto’s. Essentially that’s the autoimmune attacking the thyroid, to the point that the thyroid no longer works. Since the thyroid controls most major systems in the body, you can just imagine how many things are out of whack. And the symptoms just keep coming, or so it seems. And of course they’re all unattractive, unfortunate, and socially stigmatized! How come thyroiditis doesn’t come with improved disposition, fat loss, or mental clarity? I guess if it did it would be a boon, as opposed to a disease. Trust me, I had never fully appreciated that disease was actually DIS-Ease. Sort of like I hadn’t realized that Diagon Alley was diagonally!

But I digress….

Over the last six months or so, I realize that I have been working slowly through the stages of grief, without having noticed. More to the point, despite the depth of my agony, I hadn’t realized that I was grieving. Grieving what you ask? Youth, for one. My perfect body (that lasted for all of six months) for another. But also the idea that I – and by “I”, I mean my strength of will and determination – was in control of my physical body.

Did I deny that I had a problem? You betcha.

Was I angry? You have no idea.

Did I bargain? Absolutely, for all of the good that it did me.

Was I depressed? Scarily so.

Have I accepted? I’m getting there.

Every morning, I get up and try to remember why I am thankful for my body. Every morning, I try to remind myself that everything is as it should be and that there is a lesson here if I would only look hard enough to find it. Every morning, I thank my lucky stars that I am loved by the most wonderful man in the world who holds me when I cry and thinks I’m beautiful and charming regardless.

So what does acceptance look like?

Acceptance means buying bigger clothes and not beating myself up for it.

Acceptance means recognizing that this is not going to be fixed overnight.

Acceptance means exercising and lifting weights so that my body – to the degree that it can be – can be as efficient as possible even though the net effect on my actual physique is minimal.

Acceptance means swallowing my pride – despite that swallowing hurts these days – and taking the Western prescription for hypothyroid. (Notably, after two months of nothing, my endocrinologist doubled the dose set forth by my general practitioner and I am actually beginning to feel better.) It’s not perfect, but I can actually get out of bed when the alarm rings, and I can focus for more than five minutes at a time when I’m up. Baby steps.

Acceptance also means appreciating that the thyroiditis is only a symptom of a larger (most likely) genetic problem with the autoimmune system. Thus, I am incorporating other treatments as well: weekly visits to the acupuncturist, which leave me with nightlong dreams about running water (he’s trying to activate the water in my body). He’s already eliminated one symptom and is hopeful about another.

Acceptance also means that I need to live my life in a less stressful manner. Thus, I have started turning down the things I don’t want to do and I have also started meditating. I have done the former once and the latter twice, and I must admit that I love it. And I really can’t believe that I hadn’t done either one before now.

So, that’s the update.

I’m still creating the movie of a vibrant healthy Kathryn in my head and I am trying desperately to stem the negative self talk (Michael says I am not FULLY succeeding, btw, but I am at least trying).

I think that the lesson here is self-acceptance and self-love, no matter what. It’s a hard lesson for me, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not willing to try.

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