I suppose any starting point is a good starting point...

    Yesterday, I wrote a piece for class about my childhood in Manhattan Beach, and more specifically about how my brother and I used to sneak out to the mini mart down the road and buy candy behind my mom’s back.  I tried to make the piece funny, but I think it just turned out uncomfortable, because that’s exactly how I felt writing it, like I was peeling back my skin and showing the world my big gaping flaw: I like sweets.  In fact, as a kid I was mildly obsessed with them, but even now I’m a huge fan (as evidenced by my baking blog).  And I hate that my sweet tooth makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong, because to me it’s the strongest evidence the prosecution could cite in the case against the fatty– clearly I wasn’t fat because I ate too much asparagus.

    And it doesn’t matter that I love asparagus now, or that I’ll often pass up a rich chocolate cake for a plate of grilled zucchini, because the fact remains that I also still love me some dessert.  Which makes me feel like I haven’t reformed enough, like a sinner who’s born again but still likes to have the occasional gay orgy on weekends.  Part of me wants to shout at myself “it’s all or nothing, chubbo!  There’s no halfway in weight loss!”

    But of course that’s the crux of it: I haven’t come far enough, haven’t gotten thin enough to be allowed to eat sweets as often as I do.  I don’t think I’ll ever be thin enough though– certainly not at this rate, given that I refuse to give up sweets!  Or buffalo mozzarella.  Or fassone steak at Ristorante Semplice.  Sigh.  This just brings us back to the same old question…

    The good news is I finally have a piece of writing that might fit into my book.  I want to do a chapter on the different attitudes towards food in my family, and the different ways in which my thin brother and I were treated with regard to food.  And I really want to put some funny things in there (like the time my brother convinced my health nut mom to buy cookie crisp cereal, or the way we used to hoard “cookie crackers,” the slightly sweet whole wheat crackers my parents would put out with cheese for guests… god our dessert options were pathetic!).  In fact, ideally the whole book will be laced with funny bits, but lets not get ahead of ourselves.

    PS sorry this piece is so rambly.  It’s late and I have dishes to do.  SIGH.

This book stuff is harder than it seems...

So as I think I may have mentioned, I have to write a book for my MA in Creative Nonfiction, and I decided to write a memoir about this whole GB experience, including childhood stuff and family dynamics in addition to the process of surgery and the mental and physical results of the change.  I thought it would be so easy.  I mean, I spend 90% of my time thinking about my body anyway, how hard could it be to put those thoughts down in the form of an interesting, structured narrative?

NOT, that's how easy.  I haven't written one single word of the book, and I'm having a really hard time starting.  And the longer I put it off, the more afraid I am of failing at my goal to write a funny, frank narrative; I'm terrified it'll end up as a 'poor me' memoir, and I'll have proven my dad right in saying that this project is self-indulgent and useless.  And that's not the only surprise stumbling block...

When I tell people what I'm writing about, they all seem shocked and impressed that I'm willing to talk so openly about my body insecurities.  They seem to think that's something most people would be uncomfortable with strangers reading.  But I have no problems with that; strangers I'll never meet can know everything about my psychotic mind and I'll have no idea, so what's the big deal?  What I didn't predict, and am having some serious issues with, is the whole classroom experience. 

When we workshop our pieces in class, not only do our classmates read them, but we then read them aloud and discuss.  This is extremely helpful, but it's also extremely difficult sometimes, like when you've written an on-the-fly piece describing in detail the hideousness of your ass.  Yes, I did that.  Last week.  It was awkward to read aloud, and I kind of wanted to cry, and it was hard to convince myself that everyone in the room wasn't staring at my ass on the way out.  But I did it.

It gave me pause, though.  Writing has always been my favorite way to sort out my shit, get down feelings that I'm too embarassed to talk to someone about– the BF and I do some of our best relationship convos via email because we're not afraid to say things when the other person isn't staring back at us crying.  The distance between writer and reader is my safety net.  I'm much more comfortable writing a post here about my sex life or my jiggly shoulders than I am reading that same post aloud to a group of people I see twice a week.

And it's not just them.  If this book (if I ever write it) does get published, my family might read it.  I mean, they might not– they've never been the most interested in my writing– but if they do, and I've written about my mom's issues with body dysmorphia or my sister's terrible eating habits and sudden weight loss through thyroid medication, they might be hurt.  But isn't that a memoirist's duty, to plow on without worrying about hurting people?  I've kind of always thought that if the book is 85% me humiliating myself and 15% me humiliating others, then they should be able to forgive me, but humiliation isn't really relative, is it?

Gah.  The more I think about all this the more I feel like I can't write this book.  My teacher quoted somebody (she couldn't remember who) in class last week regarding the writing process: "successful writing requires an extremely high tolerance for imperfection in the early stages and an extremely low tolerance for it in the late stages."  She was referring to the writing itself, and that certainly applies to me (I'm such a perfectionist about this stuff that I stop myself from getting anything done in the first place because it's never good enough), but I also think it applies to content and people you may hurt in the end.  Best to worry about that stuff when the manuscript's first draft is finished, I suppose.

Ugh, but how can it ever be finished if I never start it?!

Forget the clothes, watch for the therapy!

For a couple of years now, I’ve been a big fan of the TV show What Not To Wear.  I find Clinton adorable and Stacy just mean enough, and I almost always agree with their style choices (I seriously spend half the show trying to figure out where Stacy gets her dresses and shoes!).  And I was hooked for life when I realized that they’re not at all sizeist; they don’t even take sizes into account, almost like they’re wearing blinders to the number on the tag (fabric and fit take precedence).

I think the moment I realized that my affection for Stacy and Clinton wasn’t just about the dresses (but OH the dresses!) was during an old episode with a woman named Kandis, who was more than usually obsessed with her size.  Within the first few hours of their tutorial, Stacy lost her patience with Kandis’s self-deprecation, and she said something that I thought was so interesting, I actually wrote it down verbatim (really, thank god for Tivo):

“You know what worries me? You are only talking about this clothing in terms of whether or not you are going to look thinner. Think about what you want your style to say about you, not whether or not your body is right, cause your body is perfect.”

Predictably, this was followed by an eye roll from Kandis, but I thought it was so genuine and lovely and on point.  And since that episode, I’ve wished so badly that I could go on the show.  But, unfortunately (?), I don’t think my sense of style is bad enough.  Not that I’m as chic as Stacy, but I have a pretty good idea of what fits my body (wonky though it can be) and I don’t go overboard on the sluttery or the man-pants, so I fear I’m out of the running.

Anyway, the new season began tonight, and what’d ya know?  Episode 1 focuses on Courtney, a 29 yr old who's lost 170 lbs through Gastric Bypass! She talks a lot about having 2 bodies (small top, big bottom-– where have I heard that before?) about how she still sees herself as fat most of the time, and then when she does see her small body she goes for clothes that are too skimpy.

Now, there are things I don’t relate to about Courtney.  She views her weight loss as an accomplishment, while I constantly diminish mine as not really my doing.  Also, she’s lost 70 pounds more than I have, and whenever I hear about a GB-er who’s lost more than I have (most of them) I feel shamed, like I only got a C when the rest of the class got B’s and above.  BUT it was a fascinating episode nonetheless.

It was weird to see someone else who went through the surgery (and some subsequent cosmetic surgeries, although they didn’t go into detail) and came out confused about what she looks like and who she is.  In the magazine spreads they seem to focus just on the positive aspects of weight loss (SO not what I do here, obviously), and this episode really highlighted the aftermath of feeling torn between two bodies, the old and the new.  Courtney also talks about shopping, how frustrating it was when she was heavier and how extra-frustrating it is now to feel like all the work she did losing the weight was for nothing, because she still can't find clothes.

Again, Stacy tries to break through the psychosis of fat with words, constantly hammering in the point that clothes need to be tailored to fit perfectly, and that nobody fits into things right off the rack (besides my adorable friend Brittany).  Towards the end of the episode, she turns to Courtney and says: “your body isn't the problem,” to which Courtney immediately responded: “my body IS the problem.”

Which is exactly what I would say, even now, even after watching all these shows and reading all those inspirational stories and crap.  But if Courtney feels like one week with Stacy and Clinton helped her have a breakthrough in her relationship with her body (which, apparently, she does), then maybe a few more years of watching other people’s retail therapy will help me too.  If only by proxy.

Let's talk about it.

A couple of hours ago, I was lying in bed with my boyfriend, making out etc, and he whispered in my ear "your body drives me crazy." 

Not only did I not respond by arching my back and grinning at him, the way I should have, but the way I did respond is just SO classic.  I sort of faux-smiled (chagrinned, as I like to call it), and said "that makes two of us."

God, what a mood killer, eh?!  If it weren't for my boyfriend's persistance I would have just given up.  And to be honest, sometimes I do. 

I don't write about sex much on this blog, I guess because it's one of very few subjects I'm not quite comfortable throwing out there into the internet, but I'm beginning to think I ought to change that.  After all, the bedroom (or the living room, or the kitchen, or the airplane bathroom, etc) is the one place where (in most cases) we can't hide our bodies behind clothes or under water. It's also one of the few places where sarcasm really doesn't lighten the mood.  Quite the opposite, in fact.

But it's still my first response when anybody compliments me on my body. 

When I was about 15 (and fat), people always used to tell me I was beautiful or pretty.  I assumed they were just looking for anything nice to say about my appearance, and I always brushed such compliments off with rolled eyes or a loud scoff.  And then one day, my older cousin, Carolen, who's a bit of a hard-ass and straightforward to say the least, got kind of pissed off at my reaction to her compliment.  She said something along the lines of "just shut up and say thank you," which, although contradictory, kind of struck a chord. 

I realized then that constant protests and "pfffffttt"s are really annoying to the people who are just trying to say something nice.  Why would they say it if it weren't true?  Do we really think they're fucking with us, or are we just uncomfortable with compliments?

So I've tried my best, from that day, not to scoff when people tell me I look beautiful.  But I simply can't get used to body compliments. 

One of the first things I can remember my boyfriend saying to me, the night we met, is "you've got a great figure."  Not only was this adorable in a British accent (fig-ah, tee hee), but it tapped right through my fake extrovert and struck me right at the fat-girl heart beating under my cleavage.  Of course I disagreed, but when he kissed me I realized, even through my drunken haze, that he wasn't lying.  Why would he kiss me if he thought I was disgusting/fat/wobbly etc?

Now obviously I didn't change completely in one long, drunken night of fun, but luckily for me he stuck around.  3 1/2 years later, I'm still making stupid comments (no, I haven't forgotten how I started this post), but there must have been some progress.  Lord knows I own a lot of undies that I would never have bought before! 

The truth is, I still don't really see myself as sexy most days.  Of course there are slinky dresses and Manolo Blahniks (on sale, but still the most expensive shoes I've ever bought) that bring me moments of sexiness, however fleeting.  But the big change has been accepting how my boyfriend sees me.  It's taken years, but I think I finally believe him that he actually finds my body sexy. 

I mean, as he always says, the proof is visible.

(tee hee)

The cure for self-obsession: Bronchitis!

I woke up this morning, nose running, lungs itchy and swollen, and generally just feeling like shit on a stick. I got out of bed, topless, and turned to put on my robe, and there was my boyfriend, staring at me appreciatively. I was not in the mood, but all he said was “you’ve lost a lot of weight.”

Of course, being the bitchy, complicated female that I am, I replied: “I don’t know how to take that,” and walked off to the bathroom, covering up on my way.

He meant it as a compliment to how I look now, rather than an insult to how I looked before, and in his defense he’s never once in 3 1/2 years said anything but kind words about my body. But that doesn’t mean I don’t hear the unkind ones he doesn’t say. Those are delightfully provided by my own fucked-up psyche.

But the point here isn’t that I’m screwed up, because everybody already knows that. The point is, when he said that about my weight, I realized with a jolt that these past few days I’ve been so focused on hacking up my alveoli that I haven’t really thought about my body or my weight.

When we were in Italy, I marveled at the girls walking around in their bikinis so un-self-consciously; I was convinced, despite my boyfriend's disbelief, that never in my life have I not even been aware of how my body looks, good or bad. And I still believe that, on the whole. But the past few days have proven to me that, while I am unable to be unaware of my body, I do have the ability to be unaware of my fat/weight/ass/hips/boobs. I just have to be focusing on a more pressing bodily matter, like pneumonia!

So that’s my good news report for the day. Oh, and in other good news, I have in fact lost weight since moving here; I’m about 20 pounds lighter than I was this time last year. But I’ve already gained a few of those lost pounds back in the past couple of weeks, and given my recent obsession with baking anything and everything to assuage my homesickness, I doubt the miracle weight loss will last much longer.

Either way, though, I do promise to try to update more frequently. I think I should have plenty to write about– well, I hope so, since the book I’m going to write for my MA program is going to be a memoir of this whole ridiculous in-body experience!

Sometimes boys have the right idea...

I stopped using the calorie counter when we left for our vacation in Italy (Bologna, Umbria, Arezzo, and Cinque Terre), figuring I didn't want to ruin the delicious food I was planning on stuffing my face with, and relying on the fact that I always lose weight on vacation (my theory is that I'm too busy walking around to snack). And we were really active on vacay, especially when scrambling up and down mountains to nude beaches in Cinque Terre, so I really wasn't too worried about all the gelato and pasta I was consuming (YUM).

But I was planning on getting back into the counting when I came back to London... That was the plan, anyway. But then we only had 2 days before we moved into the new flat, after which life was (still is) a blur of unpacking, buying secondhand furniture, and entertaining the friends who so wonderfully came to visit me but whom I so unwittingly told the first week of September would be fine (gah). So long story short, I'm still not counting. And my eating habits have been super sporadic– one night we'll have a salad with grilled chicken for dinner, and the next we're having pasta, Coke, and cookies. And chocolate. Always chocolate.

But the weird thing is, I've lost weight. I know, I know, it doesn't make sense. I mean, I guess it does because I walk a lot here, but I haven't done any exercise since I left SF except in Cinque Terre, and I was definitely eating enough to make up for it. We even had McDonald's our first night in the flat! So I wasn't sure, even though the boyfriend told me I looked smaller (well, he said I looked great, and I had to weasel it out of him that he meant thinner, and then he spent 20 minutes telling me he thought I looked great before, etc).

But then one day, it was cold, and I was lazy, and my legs were unshaven. And for the first time in over 3 months, I grabbed my old jeans (not the new, larger-sized ones I finally bought 3 months ago), and I gave them a shot. My boyfriend watched, practically biting his nails with trepidation about the potential meltdown to come, as I pulled them on, held my breath, and buttoned. HOLY CRAP. Turns out he was right when he said I'd move back to London and get back into my jeans. Of course, that night I took them off and I haven't worn them since. I just like dresses!

But I still wasn't convinced I'd lost any weight, because he wouldn't help me fix the old bathroom scale that was left here by the previous tenants. However, when we went on a little window shop at our favorite home store, Heal's, there were scales on sale, just sitting there on the floor, their little footpads just begging for a test-drive. The bf sighed and rolled his eyes, but the success of the jeans had gotten to him too, because he bent down to 'examine' the price of one of the scales and 'accidentally' left it out from the wall a little, then he held my heavy leather bag as i slipped off my Birkenstocks and quickly jumped on (he didn't avert his eyes, though, which earned him a slap on the pec) and then off again.

A quick iPhone conversion later, I figured out that I'm 5 pounds lighter than I was when I left SF! And that was in my clothes, with a belly full of latte, mid-day (which you know adds like 7 pounds)! So, in the end, after all that stress and calorie counting and gym-going, it was just living on my own again, and maybe a bit of distance from family drama and delicious California cuisine, that made the pounds come off.

Or maybe my muscles have just atrophied from lack of use. Seriously, I carried groceries home yesterday and now my right bicep is sore. And my skin feels a lot saggier, which sucks, but I'm trying to focus on the positive. I'll just get back on the Fatgirl Slim bandwagon and keep avoiding the gym and diets, and hopefully come winter (really soon) I'll be back to wearing jeans every day and my legs can grow a pelt and finally be warm!

Oh, and I still miss my gym routine, but I'll sort that out when we have a sofa and a bed. Priorities, you know.

Even the Italians can't help me now!

I'm in bologna right now, enjoying delicious food and gorgeous
scenery, but I can't stop hating on myself! What the fuck is wrong
with me?