The Bold Soul™

Drenched

Me, after my trainer got done making me sweat buckets. Whew.

Oh. So. Tired.

In an effort to work on my weight and get healthier in this, my 50th year, I've recently begun changing my eating habits. I've done pretty well this past week, minus a few minor slip-ups (which were really nothing in comparison to my previous out-of-control eating). But the sugar detox which always comes with this early stage of cutting back/out certain trouble foods means that I am totally fatigued much of the time. I've been through this enough times to recognize the signs of sugar withdrawal when I see 'em (and feel 'em). I just have to work through it, knowing soon it will take care of itself and my energy will come back.

So I've been laying a bit low around here. Doing the things that must be done, like housecleaning, food shopping, taking the Little Guy to dentist appointments and piano lessons, and we did have a nice weekend family picnic together on Saturday to take advantage of the good weather. I haven't been writing as much as I could have (same old broken record there, but one thing at a time), but I have done some writing, and I have been doing a fairly decent job of at least taking and posting photos, which I've really enjoyed. And I've been getting in a bit more walking this week, although not as much as I plan to once I feel a bit stronger on my feet.

Another potential reason for being so tired could be that I'm fighting something. Last night, out of the blue, I distinctly felt the kind of chest congestion that usually signals my old nemesis, bronchitis. I took a cold pill and some cough syrup and got to sleep a bit earlier than normal, and today I don't feel those symptoms at all, so perhaps I managed to nip it in the bud.

I also think I wasn't taking in enough water, so I've stepped THAT up as well. Dehydration is a big factor in fatigue.

Anyway, all this is just to explain why it's been a little bit quiet around here. I'm just busy focusing on myself and on beginning this life transtion to a healthier me. In the meantime, keep checking in here and also over at My Bold 2011 for daily photo updates.

PS We have booked our trip to Venice for my 50th/our honeymoon, having decided to add on a 4th night since Georges was able to take the time, and I could not be more excited! Venice could easily tie Paris as the most romantic place in the world, at least in my book. So much to look forward to in the coming months, between this, our 3rd wedding anniversary in July and my nephew's wedding in August! Oh, and getting my 10-year Carte de Sejour this fall!

Because sometimes it just has to be said

Men, you have my permission to avert your eyes from what I am about to say.

(giving them a moment to run and hide)

Ok. Deep breath. And...

IS IT FUCKING FAIR THAT WE WOMEN OF A CERTAIN AGE HAVE TO DEAL WITH MENSTRUAL CRAMPS AND TAMPONS, *AND* ALSO HOT FLASHES AND CRYING JAGS AND WORSE MOOD SWINGS THAN WE EVER HAD AT 16, ALL IN THE NAME OF THE MENOPAUSE YEARS?

And the only acceptable answer? Is NO.

I wish my body would get over the fence, already. Pick a side, dude.

Where "50 and fabulous" begins

I don't "do" New Year's resolutions; I haven't in years. For one thing, they don't work, usually because they're too broad and not specific enough, and for another thing, you end up feeling like crap after you've totally failed at keeping those resolutions within the first month (week?) of the New Year. How many people do you know who can claim they made and actually followed through on those resolutions to "lose weight", "get a better job", "make more money", "fall in love with Mr./Ms. Wonderful"? Exactly my point.

But I DO set specific intentions for my year, and THAT seems to work out a whole lot better. The difference between resolutions and intentions is INTENT, and being specific about that intent. Intent is much more than making a vague promise to yourself; it involves a conscious shift in your energy, and a serious internal commitment to achieve that which you intend to accomplish. And of course, you have to back up those intentions with action... sometimes lots of action.

When I reflected on what I wanted to accomplish in 2011 -- especially with the realization that I will be turning (choke, cough, gasp) 50 in a little more than 4 months' time -- I realized that to a large degree, there are parts of my life where I've already accomplished some huge things, so those are areas I don't really feel the need to "work on" at the moment. I have an abundance of love in my life, thanks to Georges, the three kids, my family back home and my many wonderful friends all around the world. And I'm living where I want to live, and doing the kind of work I want to be doing (well, we'll talk about THAT in a moment). So much to be grateful for, in any case.

Because I had spent probably most of the past two DECADES of my life focusing on finding lasting love, finding my right livelihood, and finally achieving my dream to live in Paris, because I have accomplished so much, I have lately been feeling like "OK, NOW what?" And so, for this year, I had to come up with some new material. I thought about what three things I wanted to focus upon the most this year. (I try to limit my annual "intentions" to no more than three projects, otherwise I think I'm spreading my energy too thin.)

And here's what I've come up with.

Intention #1: Finish writing and editing my second book before my 50th birthday in May, and get a satisfying and lucrative publishing deal for this book (preferably a multi-book deal, since I have other ideas in the hopper already) before the end of 2011.

Turning 50 is a pretty significant catalyst to propel me toward some big goals, and having pushed writing onto the back burner for the past four months because of that Sorbonne French course I've been taking, I am no longer willing to procrastinate on this one. It's become one of those things in my life that I'm endlessly saying or thinking I want to do, but somehow I'm just not doing it. No more excuses, though; I have a plan for how to carve out the space in my daily life to write. (It's not enough to have the intention, you have to have an action plan, too.) For starters, I need to get out of the house to see any real progress in writing. And Georges and I have really enjoyed our daily "commute" together while I've been taking classes. So... when school is finished next Friday, I will actually keep getting up every morning with Georges, and commuting with him to his office... where I will install myself in a nearby café I like that has free Wifi and a writer-friendly name: L'Écritoire. It will become my "office", and I'm committed to going there 4 days per week to write every morning (and perhaps sometimes even staying to write through and after lunch). I'll give myself one weekday "off" to get things done around the house or to get out in the city and enjoy it. But this is a significant jump in my commitment to a writing routine. And Georges has my permission to prod me out of bed every morning so I can go to "work"!

As far as finding a publisher, when I get farther along with the manuscript, I'll start doing the grunt work of sending out query letters and being tenacious about it until I find the right agent and the right publisher for me. I'm confident I will find them both... it just feels meant to be, and when we are really committed to something in our soul, the Universe will rise up to meet us. Publishing being what it is, I can't speculate whether or not the book could potentially be printed and ready for sale by year's end, but to have sold it? Would be the perfect way to cap off my year, professionally speaking.

Intention #2: Create and attract an abundance of peace and prosperity into my life.

Ah, this is one that could end up being vague and nebulous. But here's what I'm planning to do, action-wise. First off, I'm reading my friend Laura's book, The Prosperity Plan, and I'm actually DOING the exercises in each of the 10 chapters. The idea is to create not only financial prosperity (which of course is tied into Intention #1, since writing is my profession and I don't have a paying "job"), but to become someone who attracts abundance of all kinds: good health (see Intention #3), love (already got that, but love needs to be nurtured), fun and adventure (more travel, getting out more), and a sense of inner peace (at almost-50, I think the hormones are getting me a little too worked up sometimes, and I'd rather go through life more calmly than I sometimes do at the moment). 

This is one of those life goals that you can't just set once and forget about it. It's the sort of thing I will need to constantly commit to, and RE-commit to, over and over, week after week, throughout the year (and beyond) if I want it to exist in my life. To me, this is an intention that is about my evolution as a human being and a bold soul.

Intention #3: To be healthier at 50 than I was at 40 (or for that matter, even 30). 

What does that mean, exactly? It's not enough to say "be healthier" or "lose weight" -- again, that's the sort of "resolution" that quickly goes by the wayside. For me, this does mean losing a certain amount of weight by my next birthday in May, but not an unrealistic amount. I do have a specific number in mind, a number that is a small fraction of the total weight I would ideally want to lose to get into a very lean and healthy physical state. Losing this specific amount of weight would not only allow me to be significantly healthier and lighter, but would represent something else in my life: this is roughly the amount of weight I allowed myself to put on more than 10 years ago (when I was already very overweight but not yet in plus-sizes), following some major upheavals in my personal and professional life. At that time, the way I took care of myself was by eating; it was all I knew how to do to cope with the pain I was in. Now, although I know that's not the best way to cope, I've gotten into certain ingrained bad habits. Changing those habits for good, and replacing them with better habits, is what this year is going to be all about. Losing the weight will be a by-product of that, and knowing that I'm on my way to a much healthier chapter in my life will give me a lot of that "peace" I was talking about earlier. I'm not presently at peace at all with how I'm feeling physically.

Achieving this intention is, for me, quite a bit like the way I felt about my intention to move to Paris: when I thought about NOT doing it, the very idea was completely unacceptable to me! I didn't want to be an old woman and having regrets about NOT having done this particular thing that felt so very, very important to my soul. I feel that way now, about achieving a healthier physical state. It's not about wanting to look better in clothes (which I do) or being able to actually shop for clothes in Paris, the fashion mecca of the world (which would certainly be a wonderful thing). Georges loves me exactly as I am, so it's not about being worried he'll fall out of love with me if I don't lose the weight, either.

No, this is about doing it for ME. About not wanting to be an old woman, and regretting that I didn't change something that was in my power to change. And frankly... I am feeling lately as if my body is TELLING me, in no uncertain terms, that it's "now or never". I'm not-quite-50, but already have so many aches and pains that sometimes I am walking around the house like I AM an old woman. And that gall bladder didn't get clogged up all by itself, my cholesterol level is not what it ought to be. I've already got hereditary hypertension, and being overweight adds risks there as well. 

And now that I've got the man of my dreams and am living the life I want to live, in my favorite city... I really want to live a long life, as long as it can be a HEALTHY live. I may not be able to control everything in life, but my own health is something over which I have considerable influence. And it's time to take that power back and deal with it.

So, what will I be DOING to bring this one about? At the moment, I don't feel compelled to join a gym or a specific diet plan. I have, however, already started the year off by a surprise 4-5 pound loss OVER THE HOLIDAYS, and the only way I could justify that happening, despite feeling like all I did was eat big meals, was that I wasn't snacking mindlessly every afternoon, the way I often do here when left to my own devices. We were out all the time, doing stuff with the kids and the family, and even though we drove or took trains, we got in some mall walking and walking (a lot) in New York. For me, what I think this means is two immediate things: (1) get busier and get out of the house, so I'm being active and productive, ergo not bored and inclined to snack to fill the void. And (2), cut WAY back on the amounts of types of foods I'm eating, meaning limit the snacking to healthier foods, using the "special" foods as occasional things to enjoy, but not to gorge on indiscriminately.

And I guess there is also a third thing: to be AWARE of what I'm doing to my body, to be choosing more consciously how I am treating myself, to redefine what it looks like to be good to myself. Eating for comfort or out of boredom is NOT treating myself with loving kindness. 

And there you have it: my game plan for the new year and new decade. I want my 50s to be FABULOUS... and this is where it begins.

 

 

Fish pedicure? Really?

OK, I have to ask: have any of you had the new "fish pedicure", and if so, was it totally creepy or did it work wonders on your tired, calloused, horrible feet and make them look and feel like new again?

I think most of us women of a certain age (and perhaps a few men, too) can relate to how something seems to happen to our feet once we crest 40, give or take a few years, and where I once had lovely soft feet that were easy to keep pretty, now it seems to be a losing battle. Unlike a lot of people, I actually used to LOVE how my feet looked. I thought the shape and proportion was perfect (no freakishly long second toe, all the little piggies on MY pieds were "just right"). I used to love wearing sandals and going bare-foot.

Now? Ugh. Just... UGH. That's all I can say. Even dropping 40 bucks on a super-pedicure hasn't helped, although the hot rocks and massages are sublime. 

Now, I'm hearing about these new "fish pedicures" where they put your feet in a basin with some toothless little fishies (not piranhas), known as "doctor" fish (I'm sure there's a more scientific name), and they love to nibble the nasty stuff off feet. It seems to be growing in popularity here in Paris, although I read an article that said the state of Texas had banned the practice, citing the POTENTIAL for health risks despite not having had a single complaint (and what are the salons supposed to do with all those expensive guppies?) 

So, if you've had one, please let us know how it worked out for you. And if you've had one in Paris and liked it, please tell me where you went? My feet are DESPERATE for some help! (And frankly I could use the destressing.)

Presque

It is nearly finished now. Presque. And not one moment too soon.

The whole unpleasant six week ordeal. The scar that didn't want to heal and which completely screwed up my holidays in the south because I couldn't swim. The pain, both before and after. The having to be poked, prodded and treated on a daily basis by doctors and nurses while juggling a language barrier. The stress, stress, STRESS. The tears, which seem to creep up on me out of nowhere when I'm least expecting it, even if five minutes earlier I was smiling and laughing at something.

There are few events in my life where I can honestly apply the word "traumatized" without over-dramatizing things, but I think it's fair to say that I have found this entire gall-bladder removing, gangrene-discovering, realizing-I-could-have-DIED experience traumatic. Which is probably why I still have nights, like last night, where I can't sleep from reliving it... and crying about it.

Oh yes, I am still having moments where I just break down and cry. Even sob. Which feels so stupid to me, like why am I being such a big fucking baby about it... even while I recognize the tears are a part of the healing process.

Last night's mini-freak-out was triggered by nothing more dramatic than turning off my computer, where I had been laughing my ass off at reruns of "That 70's Show" (which has been getting me through a tough couple of weeks), and settling in to sleep. It seemed like the lights were barely out before I was flashing, in my mind's eye, on images of what the scar looks like; I only really got to see it ALL for the first time, uncovered, on Saturday. And it is huge, HUGE, right there where, when I look in the mirror in the morning after my shower, I can't avoid it. I know in time it will fade and be less "in my face", and it's not like I have a bikini body or anything, but a scar that big will never go away. I've got a somewhat smaller one on my left leg from 1996 where I broke the leg so badly I needed 3 surgeries to fix the damage, and THAT scar -- which also had trouble healing -- is downright awful-looking. I seem to have that sort of fair, delicate skin that scars easily. So this new one? Ain't pretty.

Last night, lying in bed, I just kept thinking how the scar looked and how I'll always have it to remind me of what this whole mess has been like... when I'd really rather not be reminded every day, thank you very much. I also thought, for probably the 100th time, of how sick I was and didn't even know it, which makes me doubt a lot of things including the medical establishment -- like, why didn't anyone KNOW? I thought of what might have happened if the WORST had happened, and THAT, above all things, is what brings me to tears, because seven weeks ago I was fine, I was minding my own business, I was just back from the States and had started re-working on my book, and I had just had lunch with a friend and gotten a great new haircut THE VERY DAY I GOT SO SICK.

And once again, I found myself sobbing into Georges' chest. Poor man... will he ever get any sleep at this rate? I know I didn't fall asleep at all until after 3am.

Initially, I was proud of myself for how I was dealing with the news that I would require surgery to remove my gall bladder. I was sick enough that I just wanted the pain, the illness part of it, to be OVER, and I knew that surgery was the only option. I was confident (still am) in my surgeon, that he knew what he was doing and he'd take good care of me. I don't do well with medical stuff, normally, but I was proud of how I just did all the pre-op testing without any of my usual melodrama, and Georges couldn't be with me for all of it so I even had to deal with the non-English-speaking medical people on my own at times, so I was proud of myself for THAT, too. I was resigned to having a few small scars here and there, because that's what laparoscopic surgery is, but other than being really unhappy to discover the hospital didn't come equipped with air conditioning in the patient rooms (during a heat wave, of course), I was just concentrating on doing what needed to be done, and getting out of the hospital and going on with my life.

And then -- because life is like that sometimes -- things didn't go quite as well as I, or my doctor, anticipated. I woke up 6 hours later after what should have been a 90-minute procedure, and knew something had "gone wrong" and that he'd had to do more than he'd expected. But I was so sick and in so much pain in the hours just after the surgery that I didn't think beyond just dealing with what was right in front of me, and nothing more. I took that same "be in the moment" attitude along with me for the entire six long, hot, uncomfortable days I had to spend in the hospital until they released me. I was overjoyed to go home to my nice, quiet, much cooler (although not air conditioned either) apartment where I could sleep in my own bed and be with my husband without the strict French nurses limiting when he could visit with me.

That first night, instead of being a relief, ended up being nothing but stressful for me. I thought my crying jag was just the usual way I handle difficult times; where I am strong while I'm getting through it, then I sort of fall apart for a little while afterward, and I'm OK with that. Then, the next day, I took a taxi back to the clinique to meet with the surgeon. It was a Sunday, and since we couldn't get the visiting nurse service set up until Monday, he'd agreed to have me come there to change my bandages himself. I told him how stressed out I'd been, and how I didn't sleep very well, and he prescribed some medication for anxiety and another one as an anti-inflammatory, and both of them worked very well so that I started not only sleeping better but within a few days it was even easier for me to move around.

But then, a day or two later, I got the news from the surgeon, the lab analysis of my poor, sad, choked by a giant gall-stone nearly to the point of exploding little gall bladder: not only infected, but pretty much presque dead. Necrose. GANGRENE. Even the surgeon seemed a bit amazed at what a mess it had been; I get the feeling he knew the minute he actually SAW it, when he started what was supposed to be the easy laparoscopy, that it was not just infected and blocked, but gangrenous; but up until that one moment he'd never said that word, not to me. He'd just been telling me that it was REALLY badly "infected", so bad that he'd had no choice but to remove it the hard way instead of the easy way, so the infection wouldn't leak out into the rest of my body.

Ever since I heard that word and saw it on the lab report -- "gangrenous" -- I've been having a rough time of it. The "rough" comes and goes, it's not like it's all day every day that I'm tearing up with emotion, but it's been a rough ride, for me and for Georges, who has been so great at supporting me but who has also had his own stress and trauma to deal with at the same time. I can't even imagine how hard it was for him that day I was in surgery, where he was expecting me to be done within a couple of hours and instead had to wait around for five or six hours before anyone would tell him anything about his wife who was on the operating table. I can only imagine he must have been scared and worried, and the extra waiting must have been awful, because I know how I'd have felt if the roles had been reversed. And since that day, he's had to deal with a wife who's on an unintentional emotional roller-coaster that she wants desperately to GET OFF OFF, ALREADY, please make this ride STOP, somebody? Because I'm worn out from it, and so is he, and we need to be DONE with it already and get back to living and loving each other without all this other shit getting in the way.

I didn't really intend or want to keep writing about this whole business, because by now it's probably getting a bit old for all of you. But clearly, I am still stressing about it, even though I know the end is finally in sight and better things are in store very soon. So what do writers do when we're stressing? We don't "walk it off", we "write it out".

I just hope I can get to the point where I stop reliving it all in my memory, where the PTSD fades away, a point where I can regain my emotional equilibrium and put things in a better perspective. Because on good days, during good moments, I'm able to do exactly that. I can see this for what it is: just a chapter in a person's life, and we all have these scary chapters to deal with from time to time. It's our challenges in life and how we choose to handle them that define who we are, and I'm very conscious of that, even while I'm reaching for the Kleenex... again.

I'm grateful I was referred to a doctor who is not only a skilled professional at what he does, but kind and compassionate as well. I'm grateful that he did such a good job getting that mess out of my body without a total catastrophe (his word) which clearly was not far off from happening. I'm grateful I didn't get sicker and that being sick didn't happen until after my trip back to New Jersey. And more than anything, I'm grateful I'm still alive to make good on my promise to Georges (a minimum of 30 years together is what we've "agreed" to, and since we just celebrated our 2nd wedding anniversary, we're no where NEAR fulfilling that promise to each other).

It's just... traumatic. There's just no better word for it. Thinking of what COULD have happened... and that nobody seemed to realize it was THAT serious until I was already on the damned operating table. No tests showed that level of infection, and in fact, the first tests showed no gallstones and no infection at all. Several of the doctors/technicians along the way told me it was "pas si grave" (not so serious), in other words, not an "urgence", and even my surgeon didn't seem to think it was serious enough to squeeze me in as an emergency surgery -- I had to wait a week from the day I had my consultation with him, and he was originally going to fit me in 4 days after THAT, only I asked him to make it sooner because of our vacation plans. Had he known then what was percolating in there, I think he'd have had me in the hospital that same afternoon, schedule be damned.

So I think it's going to take some time for me to relax and get my perspective back to the point where I'm not weeping on a daily basis. (Like right NOW, for example.) I guess I'm entitled to a little extra emotion, given what I've been through, and Georges has been so wonderful and patient with me that I can't even find the words to tell him how much that has meant to me. I'm still healing, both inside and out, and I guess that's just going to take time. Note to self: be more patient WITH self!

But thankfully, oh thankfully - I am nearly "there" now.

In the meantime, as of my doctor's appointment this morning, things are officially nearly finished. I just have to now slap a large Bandaid over one place on my scar for a few more days, and treat it with gentle care, and then Friday is my final consultation with the doctor. And it's very happy news that I'm now already cleared to swim in both pool and sea, even this weekend if we end up going up north to visit friends for Georges' birthday, and certainly for our Club Med (Beldi) trip in two weeks -- where I plan to swim with DOLPHINS! (Sidebar: a few weeks ago, I got an email from a very good childhood friend, someone I haven't seen in well over 10 years, where she sent me photos of a recent family vacation where they'd all gotten to swim with dolphins, and I even told her I was a little jealous because that was just the coolest thing ever and something I have really hoped I could do at some point in my life. And then, to discover AFTER we booked our Club Med trip, that this particular resort actually offers an excursion to a place nearby where you can swim with dolphins? That is just TOO perfect! Talk about manifesting something you really want? The Universe really delivered FAST on this one... as compensation for recent, less pleasant events perhaps.)

In what I hope will be just a matter of days, I will be able to put this nasty chapter in my life behind me for good. I got much more than I bargained for, with my foray into the more serious side of French health care.

And then I can go back to writing about more fun and interesting things. Like what it's like to kiss a dolphin on the nose!

Aftermath

First let me start by saying THANK YOU to all of you for your prayers, thoughts and good wishes for my surgery and recovery, whether you expressed them in the comments box or not. It's sure nice to know so many people care about my well-being, and your messages of concern did made me feel a little bit better during a very difficult few weeks.

And difficult, this week has certainly been. [WARNING: THIS POST GETS A BIT GRAPHIC IN PLACES.] As I've mentioned before, I am a BFB (Big Fucking Baby) when it comes to facing any medical procedures more painful than getting a shot in the arm, a mammogram, or an annual OB/GYN exam; and here I had to deal with an actual SURGERY. But I knew I had no choice so I just made up my mind to suck it up and deal with it. I was prepared for the idea of the laproscopy and that there would be some pain and discomfort, but I wasn't too worried (other than the meltdown I had the night before I had to go to the hospital, but everyone's entitled to a little freak-out in circumstances like these).

I was fine when I checked into the clinique. I was fine when the first thing they did was draw blood for pre-op labwork (and getting bloodwork is usually my biggest phobia). I slept reasonably well that night in the hospital, considering there was NO FUCKING AIR CONDITIONING (yeah, I'm still pissed about THAT, and it will be duly noted on the patient satisfaction survey they asked me to complete). I did OK with the waiting around the next morning because they couldn't give me an exact time of surgery. I was fine when the gurney arrived and they wheeled me down to the O.R. I didn't freak out at all when the anesthesiologist showed up and hooked up the I.V. port, something that also usually makes me go into massive anxiety attacks. And I remember feeling the drugs kicking in and thinking, "Good, it will be over soon and everything will be better".

And then I woke up. Feeling HORRIBLE. In PAIN. Oh, so NAUSEOUS. Moaning and crying and begging for relief and something to vomit in, in case I needed it (sorry if this is too graphic but let's tell it like it is.) Getting angry when I felt they weren't responding quickly enough. My eyes couldn't focus properly and I could barely even keep them open, but I managed to hone in on a wall clock and realized it was 4pm.

They had taken me down for surgery at 10am. For what was supposed to be a 75-90 minute procedure.

I knew without anyone telling me that something had "gone wrong" and they had to do the more extensive type of surgery to get my gall bladder out. Ugh.

I found out later that my gall bladder had been INCREDIBLY infected, and even the surgeon seemed surprised by how bad it was. The concern was evident on his face as he explained that he'd had to do what was needed (he had pre-warned me about this possibility). Getting that damn gall bladder out of there without all the infected fluids leaking into my abdomen was apparently quite a challenge.

It took me a day or two to realize how serious this actually was. That had things gone really wrong, I could have been an extremely sick woman. And maybe could have died.

Wow. That is not a small thing to be aware of. Especially when the rest of my life is great and I have EVERY reason to want to live a long, healthy and happy life with my Georges.

Then there was the hospital stay. All things considered, other than the lack of A/C and a few other amenities, most of the staff was really super, a few of the nurses even spoke English, and I had the room to myself all the way up until the last night, and even then the woman they put in the other bed was very nice and not difficult to be around at all (plus, she had my same surgeon and she'd worked with him once before, so that was nice to hear). The food was above average for what you might expect in a hospital but then again, it's France, where food is like a religion. Even when I was limited to soft foods like soup, applesauce and yogurt, it was decent-tasting for the most part. The last day and a half, when I could eat "real" food, I had a baguette for breakfast that was SO good I wished I knew where that bakery was located.

Every day, they pumped me full of antibiotics and anti-coagulants. In the beginning I got the "good drugs" for pain management but quickly they switched me over to a Tylenol type of drug after I spent a night throwing up because I guess the codeine didn't agree with me (my mother is allergic to it so I guess I may have a similar sensitivity). I got sleeping pills every night, which sort of helped but I still kept waking up ever 2-3 hours because I'm not comfortable sleeping on my back, for one thing, and because I have had a painful spot under my lower right rib that has been KILLING me all week, causing more pain than the actual incisions. (More on that in a minute.)

My abdomen looks like I was the victim of a slasher in a lousy horror film. There are 3 little laproscopic scars (one near my left ovary, which has a cyst he wanted to take a look at and possibly remove, but when he saw the state of the gall bladder he decided the cyst was not so big or so serious, and it could wait... so some day I'll have to deal with THAT again; one on the upper left abdomen, and one in my nombril (belly-button) which is a super-sensitive zone for me, and not in good way. In fact, Georges and I have a running joke that it's the one place he CAN'T touch me. And here I was with stitches in there! Quel cauchemar! 

Then there's the big incision, and I kid you not -- it's about 7" long, on the diagonal, from right below and between my breasts (making it impossible to wear a bra for the moment, and when you're a double-D that's kind of a problem when you have to go out in public) down the right side. Just below THAT, I had a drain put in, which they took out yesterday but didn't stitch up; I guess it's supposed to just close up naturally on it's own or something. They took out most of the stitches before I left, except the belly-button and a few on the big scar, and the doctor is taking those out this week when I go back for follow-up.

It was so good to come home yesterday, and Georges has been amazing at taking care of me. Cooking meals, giving me back rubs to ease that painful spot on my right back rib area, keeping me company... no woman could ask for a more loving and attentive husband. He's thrilled I'm home and happy to have practical things he can to do help me now, and I'm lucky to have him.

But still... homecoming has not been without it's problems, most of which are that the full impact and trauma of what I've been through has caught up with me at last. I've been weeping off and on for the past 2 days. I had a horrible time sleeping last night, even being in my own bed with my husband beside me (and he's a peaceful sleeper so he wasn't disturbing me). This pain in my side has really had me worried; I thought it would start to ease up once they took that frigging drain out, but if anything it feels worse. I cannot yawn, cough, laugh, cry or even draw a full deep breath without feeling that stabbing pain back there. By this morning, I had myself really worked up, convinced something is really wrong there, and concerned that the doctor was maybe passing it off as "normal post-op" effects when maybe... it's not. (After all, I had 3 different doctors tell me, in the weeks leading up to the surgery, that according to my test results, it was not "so urgent" and there was really no infection, and look how wrong they all were! It WAS serious, it WAS urgent, and it SHOULD have been taken care of immediately... and I was just lucky it didn't end up any worse than it already was.)

So we decided to take the surgeon up on the offer he made to me yesterday, which is that I could come down to the clinique today (on a Sunday) to get my bandages changed there (since the home nurse can't come until Monday -- yes, in France, insurance covers a nurse to come to your house for post-op care!) and then that way I could also ask him about my fears and concerns about the pain. Because seriously? The big incision is what OUGHT to hurt the most, and for the most part it hasn't been so bad, certainly nothing I can't tolerate.

While he was changing my bandages this morning, he explained that when he did the surgery, he'd had to displace my lower left rib to make room for what he was doing, and that was most likely the source of the pain, and that the rib would eventually move back where it belongs. But he was going to order an x-ray tomorrow for me, and then he'll see me afterward to look at it and make sure all is well. He also ordered an anti-inflammatory drug and something to ease my anxiety and help me sleep the next few nights; clearly, he appreciates that this has been really traumatic for me, and it's nice that he's taking my concerns seriously and not just brushing me off like some doctors tend to do. Otherwise he thought the incisions looked good, took the bandages off 2 of the small ones altogether, and said he felt good about how it all seemed to be going and confident there was no more sign of infection. I felt a lot better after that and will follow up with the x-ray tomorrow and hopefully it's going to be what he said, a rib out of place that will work itself out soon. Then, I will REALLY be able to start feeling better.

Otherwise, my only job now is to rest and heal. I'm going to get this elastic support belt for around my abdomen tomorrow morning, and that should help with my comfort when I'm moving. I have to get up and walk around as much as I can, to avoid blood clots in the legs, but otherwise I can shower, go out for a walk if I'm up to it, and even swim in the ocean next week on our vacation in Saint Raphael at my sister-in-law's place (complete with the Little Guy), although I'm sure I will still be taking it easy at least the first week, and maybe we'll be driving more places than usual instead of walking, if I'm still not up to long walks by then. Life will go on -- thank you, God. Things will get easier. I will get healthier.

But oh, what a rocky road it's been. I guess I am glad this didn't all explode (literally) during my 2-week trip back to the U.S. (for one thing, a hospital stay there could have drained our savings completely since I have no health coverage) but I wish I'd been paying better attention sooner, when these occasional "attacks" of pain would happen over the past couple of years; I was just passing them off as gas or constipation, even when something whispered "gall bladder?" in the back of my mind. I just didn't bother to see a doctor because the attacks were infrequent and lasted only a night each time. This time -- it was different. Maybe the moral of the story is: never ignore your inklings, especially when it comes to your health. Even if the doctors are insisting it's pas si grave, if you feel it IS serious, keep after them. And don't ignore what your body is trying to tell you.

By the way, they gave me a lovely parting gift to take home from the hospital (cover your eyes if you're squeamish):

 

Yes... that HUGE 1" egg-shaped stone is what caused all the trouble. Something like that doesn't develop overnight, and most people have a bunch of smaller stones, and often have them without ever having pain or difficulty of any kind. But this sucker, right here? It meant business. It had a message to give me: stop treating your body like an amusement park already! So... I'm listening, message received. I sure don't want to go through anything like this (or worse) ever again.

OK, enough with the graphic medical stuff. Now, I want to have my lunch and then a long nap... my new drugs are finally kicking in.

Maintaining radio silence

I just wanted to take a moment to say that while I have been silent in reaction to the many comments and suggestions on the two recent posts about my weight loss struggles, I do appreciate all the general support, concern and willingness to be helpful. I know full well how hard it is to get a handle on body image and losing weight, so I am thankful some of you felt compelled to share your own stories and challenges. Merci, mes amis.

My silence on the matter has everything to do with me, and nothing to do with all the good advice. It's an issue I need to work out on my own. I had thought that writing about it publicly might help me make sense of what is going on in my head (which is where the issue really is, of course), or that "coming out" with my struggles might somehow catalyze me into a higher level of commitment and action. That has not proved to be the case. Now, I'm not so sure how much I want to say about something that I haven't really figured out for myself yet. On the one hand, I've made a practice, with this blog, of sharing what I'm up to, and sharing it as honestly as possible; on the other hand, this is an emotional mine-field for me right now, and what I do NOT want is for the blog to turn into a place for me to whine about how fat I feel every day. B-O-R-I-N-G!!!

And I'm totally hormonal on top of everything else. (See? HONEST.) Which means that if anyone so much as LOOKS at me the wrong way for the next 2-3 days, I have to fight not to burst into tears or punch a hole in the wall. Therefore, this is probably not the best time for me to be sharing what I'm thinking when I look in the mirror.

So I think for the moment I need to keep my own council. I truly do appreciate how some of you have shared your own struggles and successes; I just clearly need to work this through for myself, and outside advice from so many different quarters is only proving to be overwhelming. (So I'm sure you'll understand why I chose to close comments on this post.) I don't want to read another book by an expert or count calories or worry about fat grams, because for me, this issue is about much more than mere "behavior modification" (yeah, I've done years of therapy with very good doctors, and I know the big words). It's a soul issue even more than it's a body issue. 90% of my soul is well and happy; the other 10% is hanging on for dear life to outdated habits and choices that logically, I know serve no good or useful purpose. THAT is what I need to work out before I will be willing to change my behaviors to any significant degree. Suffice to say that, willing or not, moving to an apartment at the highest point in Paris will force me to get more physical activity into my week, so the rest I will deal with in other ways.

In my calmer, saner moments of reflection, I know that I WILL eventually work through this. Because I always do. I do not accept defeat. Ever. Even "failure", to me, is just an opportunity to take another path, a new detour. And I have so much in my life that is so very, very good, so much I am happy with and so many ways in which I AM well in my own skin. 

This is just one big area where the "bold" has yet to kick into high gear.

A question without an answer?

Following on the wide variety of weight-loss tips and advice I'm getting from my readers, one common thread seems to be the need to "cut out all sweets and sugar".

And my gut reaction whenever I read that (because it's not the first time I've come across that advice)? PANIC. Sheer panic. I can't contemplate the thought. Addicted? Oh, you bet. I've known that for years. And before you all start telling me how much I would benefit from going to Overeaters Anonymous, here's the thing: do I want to live the kind of life that is all about denying and restricting? That seems like such a negative energy to live with. I absolutely do NOT want to continue to live in fear of food! I am now living in a culture that is ALL about what I consider to be a VERY healthy relationship with food. The French, they adore their food, and they have learned for the most part to enjoy what they want, in moderation. I like this concept a lot because it seems much more balanced than the all-or-nothing approach we Americans seem to take to weight loss.

Isn't there a happy medium somewhere with regard to sweets? Do all of you who have ever successfully lost a significant amount of weight, do you REALLY just never eat sweets again? I mean, SERIOUSLY?

So the question I ask myself, the question where I have yet to come up with an answer, is this: why does the idea of "no sugar" worry me so much? What's up with that? If there are any shrinks in the audience, I'd be most curious about your 2 centimes on that one.

WW, Day 24

I've been dragging my feet about this post because I'm not happy. I'm not happy with myself or my utter lack of progress. And it's not fun, sharing that with the whole world, or at least whatever part of the world is reading this. But, I'm the one who put this "out there" and even if I am not sticking to the regime the way I should, I can at least keep my commitment to write honestly about it.

Food tracking? None. Absolutely none.

Exercise? Very little (lots of back and ankle problems last two weeks, but I got my orthotics yesterday and am hoping for better things soon as a result).

Drinking extra water? Ummm... oops. Forgot about that.

Weight gain or loss: I am up 2.4 lbs from my starting weight. And THIS time, I can't blame it on the monthlies. 

The one thing I have been doing is being more fully "present" or "conscious" with regard to my eating habits and choices, and being on this program (if you can even calling it being "on" a program that you're not making any effort to follow). If nothing else, I am putting myself in the role of "observer" to see what insights I can gain from all this, and for this week, here is what I've noticed:

• The activity matters more than I like to think it does. Which explains why, as my life and work have grown more and more sedentary over the years, as aging and pre-menopause have begun to factor in, I've packed on the pounds. I have always detested exercise and have done my best to deny that I need to do it, but clearly, it matters. Damn.
• Even though I think I'm not eating "so much", or that WHAT I am putting in my mouth isn't "so bad", it is clearly TOO much for my body to burn off under the current unable-to-exercise-much situation. Hence, a 2.4 lb. gain with no effort at all.
• I have not made any real changes in my diet, that's the truth of it. I have been doing the same old thing, with only minor adjustments (trying to watch portion size, for example -- a small glass of OJ in the morning now instead of the tall glass I used to drink, 1 sugar in my coffee instead of 2). And OK, I did stop making a meal out of a big chocolate bar; I haven't even bought any chocolate in weeks. But it's not enough. Not nearly enough. If it WAS enough, the weight would gradually be coming off, even slowly. Instead, the scale is still going in the other direction.

I saw a photo of myself yesterday from when I was 16. At 16, I thought I was fat. It's true, I did tend to be a bit flabby in the tummy and waist, and I might have been carrying maybe 5-10 lbs "extra" on my frame through all my teen years, but now I look at this picture and I wonder, "What was I thinking?" I look not just cute, but HOT, in my old drill team uniform (who said the cheerleaders got to wear all the sexy stuff, huh?)

I have been severely overweight for so long now, that I generally find it hard to visualize myself any other way. And I know, from all my years as a coach, that if I can't visualize something, I won't achieve it. Looking at photos like this is painful in some respects, but in another respect it reminds me that once upon a time, I WAS lean, trim and healthy. I WAS once a size 10 or maybe even a size 8. I once looked good in short skirts and my mid-section didn't stick out further than my very ample bust-line. I was a hottie once, even though at the time I never thought I was.

If I was a hottie once, maybe I can be one again, albeit a more mature version of a hottie (I just think the micro-mini skirts need to STOP once you pass the age of 40 or 42). Which is maybe why I need to keep a few of these photos around to remind myself: if it was possible once, it's possible NOW.

Healthier... Day 15

Today was my second weekly weigh-in with WW and slightly better news: -1.8 lbs. Now, considering that last week I was up a pound with water weight gain, and that the number I saw on the scale this morning was exactly the same number I saw after four days of the stomach bug I had three weeks ago (that I am still not 100% over, apparently... yuck), I am not feeling so virtuous about this "loss" -- but I'll take it over a gain any day.

This week was sort of a "lost" week, tracking wise. I only tracked my progress maybe 50% of the time. From last Sunday evening until about Thursday, I had a lot of back pain (which only got WORSE after my session with the kiné on Monday afternoon) so any serious walking or physical activity was just plain out of the question. However, I'm sick of having back pain every time I do any kind of decent amount of physical activity, so I made a long-overdue appointment for tomorrow with the podiatrist to get the orthotics (thank you, Linda, for reminding me of the English word for les semelles) I have needed for more than a year. The kiné may not be the best, and I will probably make a change to another one very soon, but he is right about one thing: without the orthotics, I will keep having these recurring problems and no amount of P.T. will help if I am walking around with an imbalance in my body. So, hopefully I'll have these shoe inserts very soon, and will be back in shape to walk and climb steps without spending three days afterward in agony.

After the weigh-in today, I made a fresh commitment to getting healthier. I don't think this kind of commitment is something you can expect to do once, and stick to it; I think it's something you have to reinforce almost constantly -- ESPECIALLY when you maybe fall off the wagon a little (or a lot). My eating this week was far from perfect, but it was still significantly better than before I started the program. I am no longer eating entire bars of chocolate as a meal; in fact, I stopped buying chocolate and other candies, even though others in the house would be more than happy to devour whatever is handy (everyone in this family has a sweet tooth, so I clearly married into the right family to match my own sugar addiction). I've started keeping more stuff around the house to make salads. Last night, everyone else wanted to eat kebab for dinner but it just didn't appeal to me at that moment, so I made myself a nice big salad and was very happy with that. So, not perfect, but more often I am making very good choices. Definitely moving in the right direction.

On Wednesday, our Little Guy's nanny, whom I had not seen in over two weeks with the school break, asked me if I'd lost some kilos within 5 minutes of seeing me. It's always nice to get that first burst of recognition from someone who isn't seeing you every day; we, and our nearest and dearest, are not always able to perceive the subtle differences in our bodies just by sight, when we see ourselves every single day. So though I haven't lost much, something must have shifted. And that is good news.

Meanwhile, although we are not 100% certain of anything as yet, I am hopeful we might settle on that apartment high up on the top of the Butte this week (assuming the owners want us to rent it, of course). I like this place for several reasons (location, views, decent closets, good space except the kitchen, and an overall good vibe), but one of the biggest is because I know living there will FORCE me into more physical activity whether I like it or not. And in the beginning, I can assure you that I WILL NOT LIKE IT, not one little bit, and there will be much bitching and moaning OUT LOUD as I am hauling my sorry ass up a long 6-flight Montmartre staircase with a grocery cart full of food.

Then I will stop to catch my breath about halfway up... and remind myself that *I* was the one who found and lobbied to move into this particular apartment, so stop whining already and get on with it. 

Sometimes, a little self tough-love is a necessity.

Healthier... Day 3

I'm halfway through Day 3 on the Weight Watchers program. The online tools are really quite good, I have to say; I like the ease of just typing in some keyword like "green beans" and then choosing from the lists, plus you can calculate your "points" on any food if you know the calories, # of fat grams and # of fiber grams; this is very helpful for me in tracking French products NOT on the lists, like Actimel, a small bottle of liquid yogurt that I really like. I was actually a member of the online program in 2005, which I had completely forgotten, so I had to zap all my old data to get a fresh start-date, but the system retained a lot of the customizations I'd made to my "favorites" lists for food and activity. I had to clean those up too, as the foods I was often eating in America are not even an option here; this is not necessarily a bad thing, however, as I tended to eat a lot of pre-packaged stuff, which isn't as healthy as making things with fresh ingredients.

I have to admit, though, that I have felt hungry every single afternoon and every evening before bed. Like, REALLY hungry. I've done Weight Watchers before and can't remember feeling quite this hungry, but maybe I'm not remembering accurately. And I've even gone a bit over my daily points allowance (WW, for those who don't know, assigns "points" to each food type and serving size, and depending upon your age and current weight, you get so many points per day, which makes it rather easy, and you can eat nearly anything you want as long as you stay within the points allotted). The system does account for "going over" your daily points on occasion, by giving you some additional points you can use during the course of the week -- like if you have a special event and want to eat more, this lets you do it and still stay on program -- but it just means you might lose weight at a slower pace that week. To combat the feelings of hunger, I am drinking a lot more water -- I fill up a 1.25 liter bottle every morning, and that's the MINIMUM amount of water I have to drink each day -- and I feel like technically, I am eating plenty, so I'm not sure why my stomach has this empty, cavernous feeling even within an hour of eating lunch. I try to delay eating my breakfast until 10am so I don't feel the need to eat lunch too early in the day. I don't eat dessert (a fruit or yogurt) right after dinner, I wait a bit so it's closer to bedtime so I can avoid that hungry feeling that will prevent me from sleeping. I'm hoping it is just my body adjusting to the new regime. Either that, or this is backlash from giving up so much sugar in my "old" regime -- a very real possibility since I tend to snack a lot.

It's been interesting to learn the "points value" of certain food. Take a cube of sugar, for example. The online system doesn't list "cube" as a measurement but it does accept grams, so I had to go and look at the box of sugar cubes (because all proper French girls buy CUBES of sugar, not loose granular sugar -- didn't you see Leslie Caron as the quintessential French mother-in-law in Le Divorce? "Ah, originale! We do have a cousin who uses grains of sugar instead of cubes") to find out the measurement. A #4 size cube (yes, they come in different sizes) is 6 grams, or .5 points. I normally put 2 in my morning coffee. Today I decided to try just 1 cube and although it wasn't as sweet as I like, I found with a splash of low-fat milk, I could live with it.

The past two days I had errands to run, so I made a point of walking briskly wherever I went, and I live in a part of town where there are some pretty good uphill stretches. On this program, you get extra points when you exercise, and if you run through all your extra weekly points, the system will apply your activity points -- and this way, you can still stay "on program" even if you're eating a bit more. So you can either eat less and NOT exercise, or eat more by exercising. Since I like the option of eating more, I'm thinking I'll try to do more exercise.

I have not been "pristine" on this program -- in fact, I had soupe gratinée à l'oignon for lunch today, which is like 7 points plus 2 more points for the extra bread -- but then I am not aiming for perfection. In the past, trying to do it all perfectly was usually what set me up for failure and disappointment with my results, so this time, for now at least, I'm just tracking everything I eat, and tracking my activity, and if I happen to eat "too much" some days, then so be it. I figure no matter what, I'm already ahead of the game just by tracking everything, because I'm so much more aware of what goes in my mouth or what I'm doing with my day. I think right now, aiming for healthier choices overall and AWARENESS of ALL my choices is the best thing I can do for myself.

As I write this, it is just after 5pm and my stomach feels empty again... growl, growl, growl. I'm not sure yet what we're even eating for dinner (I have not gotten my act together enough yet to start planning family meals in advance... I'm saving that for NEXT week) so I am wondering what I can eat that won't take up too many points, as the onion soup really played havoc with my numbers for today. Maybe a yogurt would satisfy... or maybe not. Trial and error, right?

Thanks to those of you who have written in with your comments and direct email messages, sharing your own struggles and thoughts. Feel free to continue to do so; although I don't want this to become a weight-loss blog, we could all of us do with a little support.

The 100-lb. Monkey

After having recently completed the very huge goal of finishing a client writing project that took me over 2 1/2 years, I thought about what I wanted to focus on next in my life. Of course, the first thing that came to mind is putting all my professional energy into finishing my own memoir, and getting it published -- presumably with a nice, fat advance thrown into the bargain. And the second big goal is finding us a new place to live and organizing the household moving project, something that is a must-do, as our house is (to all intents and purposes) sold and we need to be out no later than end of June.

But I also gave some thought to whether there were any personal goals I wanted or needed to work on. I've got the perfect man in my life (Georges, do NOT protest my use of the word "perfect"!) and a family. I'm more settled in Paris, although integration and improving my language skills will no doubt be a life-long process. It even appears as if we may have found a nice adoptive home for Clachat (more on that in a few more days, when we find out if it's certain or not). So for all intents and purposes, my daily life is running very nicely. And I'm really happy with it.

Except for one thing. One small, tiny, hugely significant monkey-on-my-back since I was 15 years old. This monkey has grown to such proportions, I've decided he needs a name; I call him "Bernie". He is my nemesis, the thing I am constantly struggling with in one form or another. The thing where, if I could pay someone to magically make him disappear forever, I would beg, borrow or steal the money to make it happen, and NO amount of money would feel like "too much".

Meet the monkey: my weight.

I don't normally write much about my struggles with my weight, mainly because I'm embarrassed about it and rather sensitive. I don't like to draw attention to myself over this. I don't want anyone's pity, or anyone's advice, or anyone's commentary -- no matter how good the intentions. I grew up with a loving and well-intentioned but hyper-critical mother who cannot seem to understand that her "helpful remarks" are decidedly NOT helpful, and they only make me feel like shit. Even to this day, she inevitably picks the wrong thing to say: when I told her I lost 6 lbs last week after five days of a horrible stomach bug, her immediate reaction was to say "Keep it going!" like she thinks she's cheering me on (and like I want to keep a stomach bug going, just to lose weight? How insane would THAT be?) As a result of wanting to avoid all such confrontations, I have gotten into a pattern of simply NOT talking about it. With anyone. Even my husband, who loves me exactly as I am and knows me better than anyone, with my love handles and sagging tummy and all, may not know the full extent of how screwed up I am around this issue, because I won't talk about it. 

But while I may not talk about it much, I think about it CONSTANTLY. I've read where the average male thinks about sex every 21 seconds. I figure I think about my weight, my body, and my general dissatisfaction with both, even more than a man thinks about sex; THAT'S how obsessed I've become. My weight, and my irritation with myself every time I look in the mirror, consumes so much of my mental energy that it amazes even me. And I've spent DECADES dealing with this from all possible angles. I've done psychotherapy. I've read all the books about emotional eating, and how not to do it. I've even had moderate to good results on different weight loss programs over the years... only to eventually fall off the wagon. So it's not that I am unaware of who I am, of what is going on in my head about this, of what motivates me to overeat or to make less-than-optimal food choices when I know I "shouldn't". It's not that I have no self-control, because clearly I DO have it, when I really WANT to have it. I know "how" to lose weight. And intellectually at least, I even know how to keep it off.

And yet... and yet... I have not been fully willing to make the commitment and do the work. This is the one area of my life where I continue to make bullshit excuses to myself about what's good for me and about what it means to act like a mature adult -- i.e., putting my health and well-being at the top of my priority list, instead of "treating myself" to goodies every time anything good or bad or uncomfortable happens.

I have to be candid: it bugs the shit out of me that, as successful as I have been in accomplishing EVERY SINGLE THING in my life that I REALLY wanted to accomplish, this ONE area of mastery continues to elude me. I am no Type-A personality, and I'm very non-competitive when it comes to other people, but I know what success feels like. I can look back in my own history and find many examples of me having set my sights on something, and eventually achieving it. The very fact that I am in Paris is one such prime example I can point to, if I need evidence.

And in the months leading up to me coming here in 2006, I even managed to shave off 30 lbs. I wasn't anywhere near my optimal healthy weight, but I was heathiER, and that was good enough. I still felt and looked like a stuffed sausage next to all those anorexic Parisiennes, but I felt I could move more easily and walk all over town without being out of breath. My early months here were filled with walking, so despite my early inclination to pop into the nearest patisserie for a "snack", I managed to maintain that 30 lb. loss for the first year.

Then what? I fell in love. Initially, I still did well at maintaining that weight, as Georges does a lot of the cooking which meant I was actually eating a decent meal at dinnertime instead of grabbing whatever was quick and handy in my kitchen. (I've never been someone who enjoys cooking, especially when it's just for myself. I've TRIED to like cooking, I've TRIED to change my mindset about this, but so far I just can't stand it and I have no imagination when it comes to cooking.)

Since our wedding, however, things have changed for me. I've spent more time in the house and less time out and about in the city, the way I used to be. So I'm less physically active (on top of which my work is of a sedentary nature). Also, being IN the house on my own, isolated, I tend to eat for amusement, entertainment or comfort when I'm stressed out about anything. I blame no one but myself for my choices, but there it is: the truth. And as a result, I gained something like 18 or 20 lbs since our marriage, pushing me to a weight that is WELL past my comfort zone, a weight that had me gasping for breath if I walked quickly down the street or had to climb too many steps in the metro (dropping that 6 lbs did help ease my discomfort, at least).

All of which made me focus even MORE energy on being fat, and how much I hate it. There, I said it: FAT. I am a fat person. To be at an optimal healthy weight for my age and height, I would need to shed a bare minimum of 80 lbs, and 90-100 lbs would really be closer to optimal. And I do not exaggerate about this, either. 

Those who know me personally know that I subscribe to a personal philosophy that maintains that whatever we focus our energy on, we create or attract to us: the Law of Attraction, or what some have called The Secret in recent years. So I DO realize that the more I focus on how much I hate being fat, the more I create the conditions to REMAIN fat, or to get even fatter. The trick is to find the right balance between NOT focusing on hating what IS, while I also do the practical work of changing habits and taking actions to create what I really DO want. This is no small feat; if it was easy, I'd be a size 6 by now.

Today, I took the first step in this direction. I signed up for Weight Watchers Online. No annoying group meetings or weigh-ins (which I always detested); just online tools for tracking what I'm eating, so that I move through my daily life -- where food and my health is concerned -- more AWARE of my choices. I know myself well enough to know that if I continue to live my life unconsciously, I will continue to get what I do not want.

So the 3rd area of focus in my life now is A Healthier Me. I don't think I will ever really feel like a success at anything else in my life if I can't take control of my life in this area. I don't want to live unconsciously any more. And I don't want to feel so un-healthy. I have such a wonderful husband, that I want to be healthier at 50 than I am now at 48-almost-49. I want to live a LONG time so I can enjoy every single, precious day possible with him. And to do that, I need less physical bulk and more energy. The only way to do that is to change my habits, once and for all. NO EXCUSES!

Which is why I'm going public in this way. I'm not sure how often I'll post about my progress, because it's difficult to un-do years of being secretive. But the reality is, anyone who has met me can take one look at me and see that I've got "issues" with my weight... because I'm so noticably fat. So who do I think I'm kidding by "hiding"? Right, exactly. So my thought is that by blogging about it all -- both my struggles and my successes -- I make it harder to hide out. I face it head-on, this way. I focus on creating something healthier, and over time, it happens.

That being said, I think I'll take a look at what I want to make for lunch. A little advance meal planning is another new skill I need to acquire, and there is no time like now to get started.