I'm just your average, everyday, divorced 38 year old girl -- overweight, tragically unhip,
and trying to make a life for myself. I live with two furry beasts, Dave and Abby, whose
feline mission in life is to choke me with their fur. Nothing special.
Friday evening. This story makes me rethink all of my upcoming travel plans. The thought of being weighed is simply beyond horrific, folks! I mean, Chris made a comment about his own weight last week, saying that he was this certain number and that he couldn't believe it and was totally mortified. I didn't have the guts to tell him that I am, at this point, heavier than that. I'm 11 inches shorter, much narrower of shoulder and hip, and I weigh a couple of pounds more than my fiancé. I've been told, in the past, that I "carry my weight well". I'm not sure exactly what that means, but people never seem to think that I'm as heavy as I am. A scale, a shocked airline staffer, and all of the people behind me in line would know my dirty little secret, and I just don't think I could handle that. No, scratch that, I know that I couldn't handle that. If this little safety improvement is implemented, I don't think I'll be able to go and see Chris again. Seriously.
On the other hand, this link should give hope and inspiration to anyone that's ever "fallen off the wagon" with their food program. What they basically say is that, as long as you keep exercising, a break from being strict with your eating needn't knock you completely off course. I am, however, pretty disturbed by the last sentence, which says, "Women who lose weight and regain it are unlikely to lose it again." I lost 110 pounds back in 1996-97 and have regained it all plus a few extra for good measure, and the thought that I'm statistically unlikely to be able to do it again is very troubling. Very.
Thursday morning. Thanks to Shannin for the link to this page. As someone with (self diagnosed) binge eating disorder, it's good to know that someone is out there trying to prevent another generation of kids from suffering with eating disorders. For me, I know that the self loathing started early, the hatred of my body because it didn't meet some standard of size and beauty that it was "supposed to", and the use of food as a way to soothe myself. I didn't actually start bingeing in earnest until I hit college, but I've used food inappropriately for as long as I can remember. If I am ever blessed with children, I will make sure that they don't end up this way, even if it means that Chris and I go to counseling together once we're married to stop our obsessions with our bodies and food. This just can't continue into another generation!
Wednesday afternoon. Well, it's official: I won't be feeling my sweetheart's arms around me tomorrow night. I called Untied (intentionally spelled that way!) to postpone my trip due to inclement health. Funny thing is, as Chris just pointed out on the phone, I probably wouldn't have gotten there until Friday anyway, because that entire area is supposed to get heavy snow and accumulations of up to 8". I'm sure that the locals would have gotten a kick out of a native southern Californian trying to traverse the highways out there in the middle of that, but I don't think I would have and I know that my mother wouldn't have. Much as I am disappointed that I won't be there, I think, perhaps, this is yet another sign that I just wasn't supposed to be with Chris this weekend. I'm thinking about Easter weekend instead, which will be lots of fun!
I just can't think of anything exciting to write about today. I know that my loyal readers are probably thinking to themselves, "how would that be any different from every other day, Denise???" Still and all, this lack of creative inspiration troubles me. I hope it's not the beginning of writer's block or some other nefarious thing. I have enough mental health issues with my addictive personality, borderline ADD thing, binge eating disorder, and depressive episodes. Gosh, now that I've typed that all out, I sound pretty messed up. Bummer.
I really hate not having any money. I've got this overwhelming urge to buy myself some new clothes before my conference in Vegas in less than two weeks, but I can't, and it's making me anxious. The real problem is that I've gained so much weight since last October (the last conference I attended) that I've gained two dress sizes, making my available wardrobe somewhat inadequate for the conference. I've basically been wearing stretch pants and long, oversized tunics for the last month, and that just isn't going to cut it with the business folks. The easiest answer would be, of course, to diet and exercise my little heart out, but that doesn't seem likely given my current state of mind. I'm hoping that I'll be able to cobble together four outfits (possibly repeating the jacket) from what I've got and, if not, well, they'll just have to take me as they find me. Grrrr.
Our heroine waxes nostalgic for her college activist days
Tuesday afternoon. This entry from "A Single Guy in the South" reminds me very strongly of something that happened to me when I was young, politically active, and still incredibly naive about the political process.
The event in question happened when I was a member of the UCSD College Republicans, back in 1990, in the middle of a rather contentious race for the governorship of California between then-Mayor of San Francisco, Dianne Feinstein (now my state's US Senator, much to my disgust) and US Senator Pete Wilson. Our group was very involved in the Senator's campaign and several of us actually worked for the campaign as interns, so, when Ms. Feinstein scheduled a rally on the steps of the County Administration building early one weekday morning, we decided that a few of us (no more than 10, as I recall) would show up with some signs and quietly stand at the back of the crowd. Our aim was, primarily, to provide a counterpoint to the crowd of Feinstein supporters we were sure would be present. We created these neat signs using foam and paint and sticks (so that we could hold them up) with slogans like, "Go clean your own bay!" (because she was criticizing Wilson for the state of San Diego's coastline when the state of San Francisco's bay was no better) and "Remember, you like special interest money".
That morning, bright and early (I want to say that the event started before 9am, but that might just be because I never got up much before noon back then) we carpooled down to the County Admin building, disembarked, and trooped over to the front of the building where the podium was set up. The first thing that I noticed was that the crowd was really big, and I don't just mean the number of people there, although that was also true. I mean that the people (primarily men) who were there were huge. I figured out why that was so pretty quickly when I noticed a huge tour bus with a "Ironworkers for Feinstein" banner on it parked at the curb. It turns out that the local union had bused in a supportive crowd of ironworkers to make lots of noise. It should show the level of our naiveté that none of us was concerned by this. We got our signs put together and spread out at the back of the crowd, so as not to get in the middle of the people who were already assembled.
Ms. Feinstein started her stump speech then interrupted herself to say, "It looks like we've got some millionaires in the crowd this morning." It took me a minute to realize that she meant us. Millionaires? Hardly! I suppose the fact that we were showered, well kempt, and wearing clean clothes (in contrast to the crowds she usually spoke to) could possibly have led her to that belief, but we were just a bunch of college kids up early on a school day -- there was not a rich kid in the bunch. At that point, several of the ironworkers turned to look at us, and that's about the point that I felt the first stab of fear. Ms. Feinstein continued to speak and it was a few minutes later that I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, several ironworkers and the president of our club having a heated discussion near a fountain on the outskirts of the event. I didn't hear what was said but my friend, Tracy (she of the Valentine's Day visit), says that it was words to the effect of "if you touch me again, I'll see you in court". It should be understood that he was pre-law, not one to back down in the face of overwhelming odds, and one heck of an orator (all traits that would serve him well in his future as a District Attorney), so the fact that he was, essentially, taking on several burly ironworkers on his own wasn't that unusual. I sort of lost track of what was going on over there, however, because I was suddenly facing a situation of my own as I was lifted up and thrown against the tour bus by a rather large female ironworker.
As I've mentioned here before, I'm the ultimate girly girl. I don't know how to fight, nor have I ever had any interest in learning. I'll do my damage with Mastercard and Visa, thank you very much! This was the first, and so far only, time in my life that I'd been physically assaulted and I was so stunned that I just didn't know what to do. You know how you always wonder what you'd do if you were ever attacked? Whether or not you'd remember to scream? Sadly, I don't have to wonder anymore. The only reaction from me was a grunt as the wind was knocked out of me upon impact. I did put my arms out in a futile attempt to protect myself, but that was about it. Tracy, on the other hand, was in a similar situation to my left and ended up using her foam sign to beat back her attacker. I don't really remember how we got out of there. I think we sort of slunk out in the midst of a chaotic mass of ironworkers and foam hands.
Two amusing other, somewhat amusing incidents happened that I didn't see. The first was that, when called a "douche bag" by a charming female ironworker, one of our club members responded, "Clever, except that they're disposable nowadays, Grandma!" The other was the picture that appeared in the paper the next day showing part of a forearm with a fist headed toward an ironworker's midsection. No one ever knew whose arm that was until Tracy piped up and said she'd seen my (then) boyfriend (later husband, now ex-husband) extricating the president of the club out of the middle of an advancing circle of menacing ironworkers as we were exiting the area. Her comment upon seeing the paper? "I recognize that forearm!"
Do you know what the funniest part of this little story is? Ms. Feinstein never stopped her speech. Not as college students' bones met the cold, metal of a tour bus and not as first amendment rights to assemble and speak were physically assaulted. There is no way that she couldn't have noticed what was going on, because she's the one that pointed our presence out to the crowd to begin with. She could have stopped speaking, called for calm, and sent security in to stop the violence. She did none of that. I was outraged, and still am, by what happened that day. This is America, not some third world nation. People are supposed to be able to express their views, peaceably and without fear of reprisal. Things like that happen on the news, in foreign countries I've never been to, not here and certainly not to me, or so I thought. Just a little speed bump on the road to adulthood.
Tuesday morning. I took some pictures of the cats while they were not expecting it and here are the results.
The top one is of both of them, cuddled up in the sun on Sunday morning. The bottom one is of Abby alone, sitting on the back of my sofa, although, if you look very carefully, you'll see Dave's snout and chest peeking out from under the dining room table as he was sitting on the (cream colored) dining room chair.
Monday morning. Well, it's been a little over a month since my last cold, so it must be time for another go-round. Just in time for my (planned) trip to Virginia to see Chris. I left work Friday night feeling tired and a little stuffy, but not terribly worried about it. By the time I woke up Saturday morning, I couldn't breathe through half of my nose and had a pounding headache to go with. I spent the majority of both days this weekend resting, even though I had great plans to clean the house (which is a wreck) and do laundry (because I don't have much left to wear). I did have to run out to Target Saturday afternoon, though, because I needed Kleenex and a few other household items and I knew that I wouldn't be in the mood to go anywhere once the cold tightened its grip on me. Blah!
The weekend was such a waste, too, because I missed the opportunity to curl up with a blankie and a good book while watching the rain. For those not from southern California, let me explain that such a weekend is almost unheard of here. Down here in San Diego, we generally average less than nine inches of rain a year and we got nearly an inch and a half just yesterday alone. Sadly, for those whose property was ravaged by October's fires, this means mudslides. For those in the beach communities, it probably means flooding and sewage spills. For me it just meant that I missed out on this rare opportunity because my head was so clogged up that I couldn't concentrate on reading, much less enjoy it. Gah!
In closing, I've also discovered that I've got some short term financial problems, too. Grrrr. This is what happens when you combine profligate spending with a complete lack of interest in balancing your checkbook. I have this wonderful system whereby I spend whatever I feel like and just check my bank balance when the mood strikes me. Bad, Denise, bad! What happens, eventually, is that I end up sweating bullets, planning two weeks worth of survival down to the penny, and contemplating having to sell some of my VLSCI options at a price roughly halfway between our 52 week high and 52 week low. This is not good (says the master of understatement).
I think I'm going to go home early and sleep until I feel better or until the Angels win the World Series. On second thought, if I'm not back by Thursday, will someone feed my kitties?
