I love food.
Not always to eat it and sometimes not even the making of it (it's a myth that chef's are too picky to eat food made by others. Actually, they are particular when it comes to dining out - they expect a certain level of professionalism, and know how much product costs.)
I love the alchemy of it - aggregating compounds, swirling them together in my lab of blue gas flames, polished steel and glass containers...the hum and whirl of equipment, the resulting bouquet of aromas titillating the noses and piquing the curiosity of passers-by.
I am enamored by the tactile sensation - an almost erotic manipulation of food in its rudimentary stages, stroking, shaping, sometimes forcefully converging it into something completely unconventional and delectable. I am one of those chefs who, while my hands are exceptionally clean, never wears gloves (too constricting - I can't feel my medium).
Throughout my childhood, I always paid close attention to details. I noticed when visiting my grandparents that the room everyone congregated in was the kitchen. Everyone felt comfortable, at ease in there - like all predilection of formal decorum wasn't permitted. And in truth - it wasn't. When my grandmother cooked - everyone participated, and everyone stayed to talk, joke and just be with each other. The living room was where folks went when they were weary of each other, and needed a break before going to bed. Not the kitchen! The kitchen was warmth and excitement, fun and sharing, and genuine caring.
I observed the same behaviors, sights and sounds when I stayed with friends. The foods and smells changed, sometimes even the language. But always the kitchen was the heart and soul of the home. I watched as mothers and fathers combined foods and spices I'd never seen or heard of into magnificent arrangements. Family and friends gathered round, everyone together, laughing, smiling, truly loving each other.
I was eight, and quite convinced that this was how rich people lived.
As I grew older, I was convinced that I could be an amazing chef. I made up my mind, hiked up my undergarments and went to culinary school. I remember walking into the kitchen for the first time. I was given a tour by one of the department heads. A senior class was in full swing, preparing to feed a small crowd in the adjacent cafe. I was fascinated and in love! The smells, the sounds, the movements of the symphony of line cooks and chefs... "Time, please!" Five minutes out, Chef! "Where's my asparagus John?!" Coming to you now, Chef! The recognizable aroma of my favorite creme brulee and warm honey yeast rolls fresh from the oven. Everyone knew their role, and moved in tandem - a single body working to make this elaborate, decadent artwork.
I showed up to my first classes uniformed, shiny faced, well-stocked with gear and thoroughly excited. By week six, I was so utterly disgusted and disenchanted I wasn't sure I would finish the semester, let alone another year and a half. I sat crying in the deans office, unsure how to proceed. It wasn't the cooking - I could do that with my hands tied. It was the limitations, the lack of (what I considered) to be important expectations. How could you begin to test on consistent Brunoise cut, when you had not adequately taught your students to sharpen and care for their knives? How can you teach sanitation and food safety, when it's not enforced in the actual kitchen? I wanted to soar, to try different techniques and experiment with alternatives. They wanted me to follow the recipe exactly and clean up after other students who were so caught up with their plating technique they didn't have time to actually finish cooking their chicken breast, let alone clean their work station. Teamwork was non-existent, the students (most were 18 years old), were entitled and cliquey, and more than a few of us decided not to return after completing only one year.
I left culinary school disillusioned and hating to cook.
It took almost a year to find my groove again. Slowly, after a few months of only necessity cooking, I began to bake again. Cookies for my daughter. A special birthday dessert for my husband. A friend asked me to make her a cake, and I actually enjoyed it. Then I started playing around with some recipes and created some of my own - and they were great!
I learned something very important: you can't cage creativity. Trust yourself - if it works for you, if it flows - let it be.
That was the part of those wonderful evenings with family and friends from my youth, that had escaped me. It flowed. It was natural, inspiring, and easy. But then, it wasn't really the food after all.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Profile of M - Week 7, Revision 1
She flips back her ebony hair and yawns, looking forlornly at her
mother. She is obviously weary. Her sad eyes glance at yet another tuft
of hair dance across the floor.
She hasn't been here her whole life - they had adopted her when she was six and being put back into the system. It had been her last chance, at some level she had known that. She was getting older, and even she understood that it was more difficult to get adopted as you aged. But, she was happy to be with her new family, even if the current situation was...uncomfortable.
M. had been born into a family of seven. Her birth was solely to increase the amount of income coming in to the family - nothing more. On a sticky summer's day, it had been determined that her home was unfit - and a handful of people from the county took her away. While she was happy to be clean, warm and fed, she knew that her freedom was at the whim of strangers, and it terrified her.
Not long afterward, she had been placed in a foster home in Bangor. The older woman lived alone, and in a moment of melancholy had decided this is what she needed - some youth and vigor to keep her grounded and feeling loved. At first, things were great. M. was clean and well fed, and the center of attention. As the days progressed, she discovered that her new guardian liked to drink and gamble. A lot. She began coming home very late, very broke and very, very stumbly. She would 'forget' to feed M. and more frequently than not, didn't have money left to buy food. Eventually, she was gone for days at a time. M. was brokenhearted. At four years old, she learned how to sneak food from the cats and the garbage. The old woman came and went, and M. was merely furniture, subsisting on scraps she scavenged from throughout the house.
One sunny August afternoon, she had been playing alone in the back yard. A strange man came over - he was much bigger than her, and it was unnerving. She panicked when he came close and reached over to touch her hair. She had looked furtively toward the house - no mom, no escape. M. spun her head around and did the only thing she could think of - she chomped as hard as she could on his nicotine-stained fingers. The man yelled and hollered, and the old woman packed her up and shipped her off without so much as a goodbye hug.
Four years seemed like a lifetime ago now. M. had been adopted by a wonderful family who took very good care of her and truly loved her. She had her own bed, clothes and toys; she played, ate and snuggled every day.
And yet...every year, beginning in August, she begins to itch and lose her hair. A skin condition, the doctor had said, caused by nerves - an unconscious remnant of her history. None of the sprays or special shampoos seems to help much. Tufts of hair float across the wood floor and stick to the rug in spite of daily vacuuming. She is scratching again, but M. can't help herself - it's constant and maddening. Her mom smiles understandingly and pats her shoulder. Another dose of Benadryl and just a few more weeks, and the itch will go away til next year.
She hasn't been here her whole life - they had adopted her when she was six and being put back into the system. It had been her last chance, at some level she had known that. She was getting older, and even she understood that it was more difficult to get adopted as you aged. But, she was happy to be with her new family, even if the current situation was...uncomfortable.
M. had been born into a family of seven. Her birth was solely to increase the amount of income coming in to the family - nothing more. On a sticky summer's day, it had been determined that her home was unfit - and a handful of people from the county took her away. While she was happy to be clean, warm and fed, she knew that her freedom was at the whim of strangers, and it terrified her.
Not long afterward, she had been placed in a foster home in Bangor. The older woman lived alone, and in a moment of melancholy had decided this is what she needed - some youth and vigor to keep her grounded and feeling loved. At first, things were great. M. was clean and well fed, and the center of attention. As the days progressed, she discovered that her new guardian liked to drink and gamble. A lot. She began coming home very late, very broke and very, very stumbly. She would 'forget' to feed M. and more frequently than not, didn't have money left to buy food. Eventually, she was gone for days at a time. M. was brokenhearted. At four years old, she learned how to sneak food from the cats and the garbage. The old woman came and went, and M. was merely furniture, subsisting on scraps she scavenged from throughout the house.
One sunny August afternoon, she had been playing alone in the back yard. A strange man came over - he was much bigger than her, and it was unnerving. She panicked when he came close and reached over to touch her hair. She had looked furtively toward the house - no mom, no escape. M. spun her head around and did the only thing she could think of - she chomped as hard as she could on his nicotine-stained fingers. The man yelled and hollered, and the old woman packed her up and shipped her off without so much as a goodbye hug.
Four years seemed like a lifetime ago now. M. had been adopted by a wonderful family who took very good care of her and truly loved her. She had her own bed, clothes and toys; she played, ate and snuggled every day.
And yet...every year, beginning in August, she begins to itch and lose her hair. A skin condition, the doctor had said, caused by nerves - an unconscious remnant of her history. None of the sprays or special shampoos seems to help much. Tufts of hair float across the wood floor and stick to the rug in spite of daily vacuuming. She is scratching again, but M. can't help herself - it's constant and maddening. Her mom smiles understandingly and pats her shoulder. Another dose of Benadryl and just a few more weeks, and the itch will go away til next year.
The New Era of Counter Culture - Week 7
They bear the vestments of a well-aged crusade against tyranny - white face, angled black mustache and goatee, rouged cheeks, with arched brows and hollow eyes. The face of one who was made a representative of a revolutionary movement; one that ultimately failed. The face of everyone, and of no one. The face of Anonymous.
Anonymous has modernized, reinvented and marketed the term "hacktivist'. First appearing markedly in 2003, Anonymous began as an internet gathering of disenfranchised hackers and bored online community members. Since then, Anonymous has not only grown in depth and breadth, but also in the amount of fear and trepidation it strikes into the heart of corporations, governments and private organizations around the globe.
Gabriella Coleman, Wolfe Chair in Scientific and Technological Literacy at McGill University, has become a well-known Anonymous expert. Trained as an anthropologist, she researches, writes, and teaches on hackers and digital activism. In her recent series on Internet Governance, Coleman provides an in-depth analysis of Anonymous.
"Anonymous has been adept at magnifying issues, boosting existing — usually oppositional — movements and converting amorphous discontent into a tangible form, " says Coleman. "They have been remarkably effective, despite lacking the human and financial resources to engage in long term strategic thinking or planning."
Activism as a whole is certainly not a new concept. Nor is 'extreme activism'. The 1960's began a breakdown of long-held values and norms within the younger generation. With the founding of the Students for a Democratic Society, sit-ins at Berkeley and the Free Speech Movement also came anti-war movements, Black Activism, burgeoning sexuality, Women's Rights, bombings, drugs, Hippies and Woodstock.
Counterculture itself is defined as a way of life and set of attitudes opposed to the prevailing social norm. It is the next generation, pushing and clawing through the commonplace and accepted, demanding it's voice, demanding change.
Anonymous gives voice to the unspoken and muted. It not only amplifies the cries of the counterculture - it is the counterculture. The modern day Loki - you're never really sure of they are the hero, or the anti-hero, but always a trickster.
Anonymous is well-known for having multiple projects rolling concurrently. Knows as 'Ops', they been well-known for Ops for the 'Lulz' (laughs) - coordinated pranks, just for the fun of it, but also target hotbed political and religious issues and cases involving attacks on women and children.
In many cases, not only have they drawn well-needed attention to an issue, but in some cases affected its outcome. Early this year, Anonymous took up the mantle for Rehtaeh Pearsons of Halifax. The seventeen year old girl had been drinking at a party in 2011 and reportedly gang-raped by four classmates who took pictures and posted them online. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police investigated the crime, but said there wasn't enough evidence to charge the boys.
For the next two years she was bullied, tormented and harassed to the point of her family being forced to move from their home. After years of torture, Rehtaeh hung herself in April of this year.
Anonymous was outraged, and released a statement announcing they had identified the four rapists. They demanded the Nova Scotia Police reopen the case or they would make the names public.
"Our demands are simple: We want the [Nova Scotia Royal Canadian Mounted Police] to take immediate legal action against the individuals in question. We encourage you to act fast. If we were able to locate these boys within 2 hours, it will not be long before someone else finds them," the statement read. With their trademark credo: "We are Anonymous. We are legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us.”
On April 12, the RCMP announced the case was being reopened in light of "new and credible information" that they said did not come from the Internet.
.
Anonymous has modernized, reinvented and marketed the term "hacktivist'. First appearing markedly in 2003, Anonymous began as an internet gathering of disenfranchised hackers and bored online community members. Since then, Anonymous has not only grown in depth and breadth, but also in the amount of fear and trepidation it strikes into the heart of corporations, governments and private organizations around the globe.
Gabriella Coleman, Wolfe Chair in Scientific and Technological Literacy at McGill University, has become a well-known Anonymous expert. Trained as an anthropologist, she researches, writes, and teaches on hackers and digital activism. In her recent series on Internet Governance, Coleman provides an in-depth analysis of Anonymous.
"Anonymous has been adept at magnifying issues, boosting existing — usually oppositional — movements and converting amorphous discontent into a tangible form, " says Coleman. "They have been remarkably effective, despite lacking the human and financial resources to engage in long term strategic thinking or planning."
Activism as a whole is certainly not a new concept. Nor is 'extreme activism'. The 1960's began a breakdown of long-held values and norms within the younger generation. With the founding of the Students for a Democratic Society, sit-ins at Berkeley and the Free Speech Movement also came anti-war movements, Black Activism, burgeoning sexuality, Women's Rights, bombings, drugs, Hippies and Woodstock.
Counterculture itself is defined as a way of life and set of attitudes opposed to the prevailing social norm. It is the next generation, pushing and clawing through the commonplace and accepted, demanding it's voice, demanding change.
Anonymous gives voice to the unspoken and muted. It not only amplifies the cries of the counterculture - it is the counterculture. The modern day Loki - you're never really sure of they are the hero, or the anti-hero, but always a trickster.
Anonymous is well-known for having multiple projects rolling concurrently. Knows as 'Ops', they been well-known for Ops for the 'Lulz' (laughs) - coordinated pranks, just for the fun of it, but also target hotbed political and religious issues and cases involving attacks on women and children.
In many cases, not only have they drawn well-needed attention to an issue, but in some cases affected its outcome. Early this year, Anonymous took up the mantle for Rehtaeh Pearsons of Halifax. The seventeen year old girl had been drinking at a party in 2011 and reportedly gang-raped by four classmates who took pictures and posted them online. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police investigated the crime, but said there wasn't enough evidence to charge the boys.
For the next two years she was bullied, tormented and harassed to the point of her family being forced to move from their home. After years of torture, Rehtaeh hung herself in April of this year.
Anonymous was outraged, and released a statement announcing they had identified the four rapists. They demanded the Nova Scotia Police reopen the case or they would make the names public.
"Our demands are simple: We want the [Nova Scotia Royal Canadian Mounted Police] to take immediate legal action against the individuals in question. We encourage you to act fast. If we were able to locate these boys within 2 hours, it will not be long before someone else finds them," the statement read. With their trademark credo: "We are Anonymous. We are legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us.”
On April 12, the RCMP announced the case was being reopened in light of "new and credible information" that they said did not come from the Internet.
.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Profile, Week 7
She flips back her ebony hair and yawns, looking forlornly at her mother. She is obviously weary. Her sad eyes glance at yet another tuft of hair dance across the floor.
She hasn't been here her whole life - they had adopted her in 2009 when she was being put back into the system (again). It had been her last chance, at some level she had known that. She was getting older, and even she understood that it was more difficult to get adopted as you aged. But, she was happy to be here, even if the current situation was...uncomfortable.
M. had been born into a family of seven. Her birth was solely to increase the amount of income coming in to the family - nothing more. On a sticky summer's day, it had been determined that her home was unfit - and a handful of people from the county took her away. While she was happy to be clean, warm and fed, she knew that her freedom was at the whim of strangers, and it terrified her.
Not long afterward, she had been placed in a foster home in Bangor. The older woman lived alone, and in a moment of melancholy had decided this is what she needed - some youth and vigor to keep her grounded and loved. At first, things were great. M. was clean and well fed, and the center of attention. As the days progressed, she discovered that her new guardian liked to drink and gamble. A lot. She began to come home very late, very broke and very, very stumbly. She would 'forget' to feed M. and more frequently than not, didn't have money left to buy food. Eventually, she was gone for days at a time. M. was brokenhearted. She had tried desperately to get her new mom's attention in any way she could. Nothing had worked.
On a sunny August afternoon, she had been playing alone in the back yard. A strange man came over - he was much bigger than her, and it was unnerving. She panicked when he came close and reached over to touch her hair. She had looked furtively toward the house - no mom, no escape. M. spun her head around and did the only thing she could think of - she chomped as hard as she could on his nicotine-stained fingers.
That was a lifetime ago. Her new mom had known the older woman, and had begged to be allowed to adopt M. when she was in trouble for biting the man. The old woman kept saying something about putting her down somewhere, but M. never really understood it. She did understand that the woman was really angry that she had bitten the man, and M. was sad and sorry for that. But on one cool fall morning, the older woman had packed up M. and her things in the car, and taken them to the new woman's house.
And then she left - without so much as a goodbye hug.
M. had been petrified and began to shake. She had met this woman a couple of times previously, but everything else was new and different; her world was crumbling. She climbed up into her lap and closed her eyes. The woman whispered to her and held her close until she stopped shaking.
After a few months of love and care, this new family became her own. She had a sister - bigger than her, but younger and full of energy. M. had become queen of the house, and Mom's favorite. She loved her family, and they loved her. Finally, she had a real, safe home.
That was over four years ago. And yet...
Every fall, beginning in August, she began to itch and lose her hair. A skin condition, the doctor had said, caused by nerves and the change of seasons. She has sprays and special shampoos; none of which seem to help much. Tufts of hair float across the wood floor and stick to the rug in spite of her mother vacuuming most every day. Every other day she gets a bath, and what's left of her hair washed in hypo-allergenic shampoo. She even has a special diet. Her skin is sprayed with the prescription liquid to help ease the itching. But M. can't help herself - it's constant and maddening. Even M.'s Mom gets frustrated with it sometimes. The discovery of Benadryl has meant that M. has finally been able to get some serious sleep, without the incessant and infernal itching - and that means her family can catch up on some uninterrupted sleep too.
They are just need to get her though the end of October - when the itching will subside and her nerves will calm again for another year.
She hasn't been here her whole life - they had adopted her in 2009 when she was being put back into the system (again). It had been her last chance, at some level she had known that. She was getting older, and even she understood that it was more difficult to get adopted as you aged. But, she was happy to be here, even if the current situation was...uncomfortable.
M. had been born into a family of seven. Her birth was solely to increase the amount of income coming in to the family - nothing more. On a sticky summer's day, it had been determined that her home was unfit - and a handful of people from the county took her away. While she was happy to be clean, warm and fed, she knew that her freedom was at the whim of strangers, and it terrified her.
Not long afterward, she had been placed in a foster home in Bangor. The older woman lived alone, and in a moment of melancholy had decided this is what she needed - some youth and vigor to keep her grounded and loved. At first, things were great. M. was clean and well fed, and the center of attention. As the days progressed, she discovered that her new guardian liked to drink and gamble. A lot. She began to come home very late, very broke and very, very stumbly. She would 'forget' to feed M. and more frequently than not, didn't have money left to buy food. Eventually, she was gone for days at a time. M. was brokenhearted. She had tried desperately to get her new mom's attention in any way she could. Nothing had worked.
On a sunny August afternoon, she had been playing alone in the back yard. A strange man came over - he was much bigger than her, and it was unnerving. She panicked when he came close and reached over to touch her hair. She had looked furtively toward the house - no mom, no escape. M. spun her head around and did the only thing she could think of - she chomped as hard as she could on his nicotine-stained fingers.
That was a lifetime ago. Her new mom had known the older woman, and had begged to be allowed to adopt M. when she was in trouble for biting the man. The old woman kept saying something about putting her down somewhere, but M. never really understood it. She did understand that the woman was really angry that she had bitten the man, and M. was sad and sorry for that. But on one cool fall morning, the older woman had packed up M. and her things in the car, and taken them to the new woman's house.
And then she left - without so much as a goodbye hug.
M. had been petrified and began to shake. She had met this woman a couple of times previously, but everything else was new and different; her world was crumbling. She climbed up into her lap and closed her eyes. The woman whispered to her and held her close until she stopped shaking.
After a few months of love and care, this new family became her own. She had a sister - bigger than her, but younger and full of energy. M. had become queen of the house, and Mom's favorite. She loved her family, and they loved her. Finally, she had a real, safe home.
That was over four years ago. And yet...
Every fall, beginning in August, she began to itch and lose her hair. A skin condition, the doctor had said, caused by nerves and the change of seasons. She has sprays and special shampoos; none of which seem to help much. Tufts of hair float across the wood floor and stick to the rug in spite of her mother vacuuming most every day. Every other day she gets a bath, and what's left of her hair washed in hypo-allergenic shampoo. She even has a special diet. Her skin is sprayed with the prescription liquid to help ease the itching. But M. can't help herself - it's constant and maddening. Even M.'s Mom gets frustrated with it sometimes. The discovery of Benadryl has meant that M. has finally been able to get some serious sleep, without the incessant and infernal itching - and that means her family can catch up on some uninterrupted sleep too.
They are just need to get her though the end of October - when the itching will subside and her nerves will calm again for another year.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Autobiographical Slice
My bottom hurts.
I rode my new bike for the second day in a row, about 2 1/2 miles. And my bum hurts. I think if my poor bike was animated it would wail like a brokenhearted banshee.
I've had problems with my weight most of my life. From very early on when I discovered books, reading became my obsession. I would read all the time - in the bathroom, in the car, at the doctor's office. My mother would send me outside to 'get some fresh air', and I would go sit on a boulder with my book and read. I ate and read. Exercise, for the sake of exercise, was not on my schedule.
By the time I was thirteen, it was obvious I had inherited my Great Aunt Vivian's stature. At 6'2" and big boned, she was no fragile daisy. In fact, she had leveraged her size to intimidate many people in the military, and was rumored to have even backed a former mafia don into a corner. One evening she had been walking into a restaurant on the boardwalk in New Jersey, and felt a twist in her ankle. She went in to dinner, and their waiter asked if she was okay, as she was bleeding on the floor. Turns out, she had been shot by a roving bullet in a drive-by shooting. She was tough as nails! I both envied and feared her; she had become an old maid after all.
As I entered my teenage years, I was 5'8" and 160 pounds. My mother was on me constantly about watching what I ate. I knew I was a disappointment - I wasn't that adorable, perky little pixie girl like my youngest sister. I was the awkward, bumbling bookworm who hadn't lost any baby fat and was now getting acne on top of everything else. Awesome.
In 1982, I was on the basketball team at Mahoney Middle School. I liked basketball enough, but I liked how it made my father proud more. (Except when someone screwed up and he yelled really, really loud. Yeah - he was THAT dad). For the first time that I could remember, he bragged about me to other people, and that made up for any embarrassing hullabaloo at my games. . My mother liked that I was getting exercise every day, but was still on me all the time about how much I ate. I would come home from a 2 1/2 hour practice absolutely ravenous, and she would give me a hard time about eating. Looking back now, I realize it wasn't how much I was eating. In truth, I wasn't eating enough - no breakfast or lunch, a snack when I got home, then dinner and maybe a snack later. I know know it was what I was eating that was the problem - processed and junk foods.
In 1984, I was doe-eyed, acne-faced freshman, at 5'11" and 180 pounds. My mother had gotten so fed up with me, she had decided to stop grocery shopping altogether. She purchased what was needed for dinner daily - nothing else. Our cupboards were bare most of the time. I felt like I was starving, and hated myself for it.
Flash forward twenty years. By the age of 35, I was desperate. I had just had my second child (by caesarean section), and couldn't seem to lose the weight. It had been a difficult pregnancy, and I had become anemic, pre-eclamptic and pre-diabetic. A year later, I was still anemic and pre-diabetic, but also had developed thyroid issues, high blood pressure and heart arrhythmias. My doctor finally agreed to a referral for Lap-band surgery.
A laproscopic band is like one of those short, thick elastics we used to love to shoot at each other when we were kids (or last week in the office). It's a medical grade plastic tire, about the size of a fifty cent piece. It has an inner tube that can be 'inflated' with saline, to loosen or tighten the band. It's installed via laproscopic surgery (hence the name). It took two and a half hours. After the surgery I was in the hospital for 2 days and then on a completely liquid diet for the first two weeks. I lost twelve pounds.
As the first year progressed, I lost sixty pounds. I was elated! I danced around my living room, I was walking and hiking, I was outside playing with my kids. I looked good; I felt great. I was beginning to feel better about myself. I wore shorter skirts and lower cut blouses. My sons asked my husband what was wrong with me. I was proud of my new body.
By year three, I was down from an original 263 pounds at the time of surgery, to 155 pounds and a size six. In addition to the surgery, I had been required to attend meetings with a nutritionist and support group meetings. I learned about making healthier choices, and portion size from a really annoying Barbie-look alike that I was quite sure had never had a weight problem in her life. I learned I wasn't alone. I discovered, after all that pressure, fighting, starving, binging when I was a kid - that 155 is my 'perfect' number for my height. My 'sweet spot', as my internist put it.
That would've been handy information twenty years ago.
I have had my ups and downs since then. Currently I am on a 'down' period again, where I am unhappy with my weight. I lost my insurance with my job almost three years ago, and have not had the funds to go to my internist for band adjustments. I'm too proud and stubborn to sign up for MaineCare, and I won't voluntarily go without the funds.
My daughter and I started biking together yesterday, as a means of exercise and entertainment. I recognize that this will be a lifelong battle for me. We've been working on being healthy - not dieting. I'm pretty cognizant of inflicting the same weight-conscious attitude on her, and therefore I work on being an example as best I can. I think the key is to find balance in your life. There will always be ups and downs, highs and lows, size sixes and more 'fluffy' sizes. The trick is to be okay and secure in that knowledge, and to keep moving. No matter how much your bottom hurts.
I rode my new bike for the second day in a row, about 2 1/2 miles. And my bum hurts. I think if my poor bike was animated it would wail like a brokenhearted banshee.
I've had problems with my weight most of my life. From very early on when I discovered books, reading became my obsession. I would read all the time - in the bathroom, in the car, at the doctor's office. My mother would send me outside to 'get some fresh air', and I would go sit on a boulder with my book and read. I ate and read. Exercise, for the sake of exercise, was not on my schedule.
By the time I was thirteen, it was obvious I had inherited my Great Aunt Vivian's stature. At 6'2" and big boned, she was no fragile daisy. In fact, she had leveraged her size to intimidate many people in the military, and was rumored to have even backed a former mafia don into a corner. One evening she had been walking into a restaurant on the boardwalk in New Jersey, and felt a twist in her ankle. She went in to dinner, and their waiter asked if she was okay, as she was bleeding on the floor. Turns out, she had been shot by a roving bullet in a drive-by shooting. She was tough as nails! I both envied and feared her; she had become an old maid after all.
As I entered my teenage years, I was 5'8" and 160 pounds. My mother was on me constantly about watching what I ate. I knew I was a disappointment - I wasn't that adorable, perky little pixie girl like my youngest sister. I was the awkward, bumbling bookworm who hadn't lost any baby fat and was now getting acne on top of everything else. Awesome.
In 1982, I was on the basketball team at Mahoney Middle School. I liked basketball enough, but I liked how it made my father proud more. (Except when someone screwed up and he yelled really, really loud. Yeah - he was THAT dad). For the first time that I could remember, he bragged about me to other people, and that made up for any embarrassing hullabaloo at my games. . My mother liked that I was getting exercise every day, but was still on me all the time about how much I ate. I would come home from a 2 1/2 hour practice absolutely ravenous, and she would give me a hard time about eating. Looking back now, I realize it wasn't how much I was eating. In truth, I wasn't eating enough - no breakfast or lunch, a snack when I got home, then dinner and maybe a snack later. I know know it was what I was eating that was the problem - processed and junk foods.
In 1984, I was doe-eyed, acne-faced freshman, at 5'11" and 180 pounds. My mother had gotten so fed up with me, she had decided to stop grocery shopping altogether. She purchased what was needed for dinner daily - nothing else. Our cupboards were bare most of the time. I felt like I was starving, and hated myself for it.
Flash forward twenty years. By the age of 35, I was desperate. I had just had my second child (by caesarean section), and couldn't seem to lose the weight. It had been a difficult pregnancy, and I had become anemic, pre-eclamptic and pre-diabetic. A year later, I was still anemic and pre-diabetic, but also had developed thyroid issues, high blood pressure and heart arrhythmias. My doctor finally agreed to a referral for Lap-band surgery.
A laproscopic band is like one of those short, thick elastics we used to love to shoot at each other when we were kids (or last week in the office). It's a medical grade plastic tire, about the size of a fifty cent piece. It has an inner tube that can be 'inflated' with saline, to loosen or tighten the band. It's installed via laproscopic surgery (hence the name). It took two and a half hours. After the surgery I was in the hospital for 2 days and then on a completely liquid diet for the first two weeks. I lost twelve pounds.
As the first year progressed, I lost sixty pounds. I was elated! I danced around my living room, I was walking and hiking, I was outside playing with my kids. I looked good; I felt great. I was beginning to feel better about myself. I wore shorter skirts and lower cut blouses. My sons asked my husband what was wrong with me. I was proud of my new body.
By year three, I was down from an original 263 pounds at the time of surgery, to 155 pounds and a size six. In addition to the surgery, I had been required to attend meetings with a nutritionist and support group meetings. I learned about making healthier choices, and portion size from a really annoying Barbie-look alike that I was quite sure had never had a weight problem in her life. I learned I wasn't alone. I discovered, after all that pressure, fighting, starving, binging when I was a kid - that 155 is my 'perfect' number for my height. My 'sweet spot', as my internist put it.
That would've been handy information twenty years ago.
I have had my ups and downs since then. Currently I am on a 'down' period again, where I am unhappy with my weight. I lost my insurance with my job almost three years ago, and have not had the funds to go to my internist for band adjustments. I'm too proud and stubborn to sign up for MaineCare, and I won't voluntarily go without the funds.
My daughter and I started biking together yesterday, as a means of exercise and entertainment. I recognize that this will be a lifelong battle for me. We've been working on being healthy - not dieting. I'm pretty cognizant of inflicting the same weight-conscious attitude on her, and therefore I work on being an example as best I can. I think the key is to find balance in your life. There will always be ups and downs, highs and lows, size sixes and more 'fluffy' sizes. The trick is to be okay and secure in that knowledge, and to keep moving. No matter how much your bottom hurts.
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