Raw Drip

Yesterday I joined Weight Watchers for about the 5th time in my life. 

Wipe that look off your face.  It’s all good.  Here’s the thing: I “get” what my problems are - primarily an addiction to bread-based carbs and an overly flexible interpretation of an appropriate serving size.  Indeed, intellectually speaking I could run that WW weekly meeting and do a helluva bang-up job! People would love me - the knowledgeable, motivational fat girl that has clearly been through the program a few times before.   

So if it’s not a question of knowledge, what is my problem?  I’ve thought about this a lot and my problem is that I have trouble thinking long-term.  Like many people, I’m an instant gratification junkie who can only see the short-term satisfaction of eating a warm cinnamon roll.  As I stuff my face with frosted gooiness, all the long-term implications of my actions drift into the background.  I become the Scarlett O’Hara of food telling myself that “Tomorrow is another day…” While, it is another day, I tend to lack Scarlett’s single-minded focus on achieving goals. 

On top of my lack of focus,  I HATE to exercise.  Really - HATE IT.  Walking is fine with me and I have some stellar shapely calves to prove it, but a formalized exercise routine is my personal definition of hell.

Looking back, it’s hard to pinpoint when my struggle with weight and self-image began since it seems to have been with me always.  I’ve been 6ft tall since age 11 with a substantial build so even as a child I was freakishly large, especially for a girl.  My first memory of actually feeling ashamed of my largeness was going to the Orange County Fair (yep, that O.C.) and not being allowed to ride the ponies because I was “too fat”.  The carni operating the pony ride insisted on weighing me as I stood in line for my turn and then shouted my weight to my family and the entire crowd followed by the words, “Sorry folks. Your daughter’s too fat for this ride!”  The weight limit was 100 pounds.  I was 8 years old and weighed 105 pounds.  

Shortly after my humiliating fair ground experience I remember becoming fascinated with a weight loss device advertised in the back of my mother’s National Enquirer magazine.  According to the ad for the magic cube you just hold onto the cube several times a day, thinking positive thoughts and it would mysteriously jump-start your metabolism so you could lose weight without dieting.  Its effectiveness was attested to by several prominent doctors who obliging provided their initials beneath their enthusiastic testimonials.  At $19.99 the magic cube seemed like a small price to pay for thin.  

I never did get around to buying the magic cube, but I did eat a lot of Ayds.  Do you remember Ayds?   They were the (unfortunately named) hunger suppressant candies popular in the 70’s.  I think my mom lived off of those and Juicy Fruit chewing gum for most of my youth.   Anyway, I went through a period of mass Ayds consumption to no avail and then stumbled upon the fantastic weight loss effects of the Jane Fonda Workout during my middle school years. 

I’ve got to give Jane credit - her exercise regimen worked!  I did lose weight and I did notice increased energy.  But after a while I became bored.  How many times can you do the same workout routine?  After a year of almost daily workouts in P.E. I had the routine memorized and my weight loss had reached a plateau.  To this day I can’t listen to that James Ingram song “Find 100 Ways” without hearing Jane cheering, “Lift…squeeze - woo!  Hot cross buns!”. 

Another self-esteem turning point in my youth was the annual public humiliation and torture known as the “President’s Physical Fitness Test”.   It was always unclear to me why Ronald Reagan should care whether or not I could do 10 pull ups or 25 push ups, but my entire middle school phys ed curriculum was structured around conditioning us for success on this test.  Maybe it had something to do with the Cold War…

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that as a tall, clumsy, asthmatic teen I couldn’t pass, let alone perform, any of the challenges on the President’s test.  It was probably the only test I took and failed every year.  Academically, I was a star pupil but when they made me run a mile on the track I’d be in acute pulmonary distress after the first lap. 

So, there’s no mystery in how I got to where I am.  Eats too much - check!  Hates to exercise - check!  Naturally cursed with a zaftig build - check!

The mystery lies in figuring out how I’m going find that place within myself that is happy with how I look and feel and is so pleased with me that I’ll make the necessary sacrifices to maintain my weight.  Following a diet is easy, but changing that part of your life is hard. 

And I know I’m not one of those women who looks at her husband and says, “Gosh. I decided to lose weight for him - to keep that spark alive.”  I’m more like, “Dude, here I am.  Fat, thin, take it or leave it.”  

I also realize that there is no such thing as losing weight for my kids.  There’s a great line in the movie “Terms of Endearment” when Debra Winger’s character is explaining something to her boys and she says very matter-of-factly, “I love you almost as much as I love myself…”  Every time I hear that line it gets to me.  If only I could be that self-possessed!  I love & adore my children and I do want to be healthy enough to be with them a very long time, but I think I’m going to have to love myself first and that’s really tough.  We women are notoriously guilt-ridden creatures.  And I know me and I know how unlovable, stubborn and difficult I can be.  I want to be able to eat that cinnamon roll without guilt because I’ll feel secure in the knowledge that one cinnamon roll doesn’t amount to a dietary tipping point - it doesn’t have to be the beginning of the end.  It’s all about moderation, after all.   I just wish I didn’t suck at moderation so much.

Less than a week into our Florida relo and we seem to have landed the best daycare provider ever.  Seriously, this place is awesome.  The price is pretty close to what we were paying in NJ but the quality of the staff, the cleanliness & order of the facilities and the structured curriculum are outstanding. 

The kids began attending last Wednesday, but since last week was spring break, Adam’s new permanent teacher was out.  This meant that we had a handful of subs in his room who were polite and capable but didn’t provide us with a lot of feedback on how Adam was transitioning into his new environment. 

When we arrived at daycare yesterday, we went through a new round of introductions meeting his permanent teacher, Ms. C.   Seeing Adam bounce obliviously past her warmly outstretched hand I could already hear the parent/teacher conversation in my head; the one where we talk about his not listening, his not sharing, and his not respecting other people’s boundaries.  

So, you can imagine my hesitation when Ms. C approached me this morning.   I was expecting to get the dreaded laundry list of behavioral issues to focus on at home.  I steeled myself for the inevitable, painful critique of my son’s coping skills - a notorious character trait that has earned Adam the title “Drama King” at home. 

But it was with surprise and relief that I heard Ms. C detail all the ways in which Adam is the ideal student.  I wanted to smack myself in the face a few times to get over the shock.  Whose kid are we talking about here?  I’m suspicious.

It seems the little boy attending her class listens and offers his insightful and surprisingly mature opinions using his real, big boy words - no toddler nonsense words.  And the obedient, friendly little guy in Ms. C’s class possesses an incredible ability to focus and apply himself to the task at hand.  This boy never fights or argues with the other children.  This little boy is a playground peacemaker and caretaker who just wants to see everyone get along.  Ms. C describes him as being delightful. 

Sadly, hearing her heaps of praise, I couldn’t believe we were talking about my son.  How can this be?  All of his past teachers told me stories about his lack of focus and his inability to listen or follow simple instructions.  While I never believed that there was anything developmentally wrong with him (after all, his father isn’t so good with focus or listening either) I was certain that I’d NEVER hear an experienced teacher praise my son for these very attributes.   Part of me wants to scoop him up and cover him with thankful kisses (”I guess I haven’t totally screwed you up…yet!”) and another part of me wants to pin down Ms. C and make her reveal all her super sneaky secret teacher techniques for making him act like the kid I always wanted him to be. 

But maybe I’m shocked by the praise because my perspective of Adam is warped by my close up view of the behavioral forest, if you will.  Maybe if I spent years upon years teaching and nurturing dozens of 3 & 4 year olds, I’d be able to identify the kids with the more serious issues versus the ones who are just going through normal developmental phases.   Maybe Adam really is the fabulous little boy I always knew he could be.

Today is day two of life with Adam in Ms. C’s room.  I can’t help it.  I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I’m convinced that soon she’ll look at my little chatterbox of a boy and realize what a disaster him and his parents are and she’ll regret having offered such effusive praise.  Or maybe I’ll force her to admit that she’d mistaken my boy for some other mommy’s kid.  When I point out to her that my son is the boy in the blue Hawaiian shirt and khaki cargo pants she’ll spontaneously offer up her true feelings in the form of an unrepeatable utterance that will confirm all my suspicions about the impostor kid invading Preschool II…

While, technically, we didn’t leave New York City behind (we were in Northern NJ after all) it still feels like the city and I have parted ways once again. 

The first time Dick and I lived in NYC we were there from January ‘99 to August ’02 B.C. (Before Children).  As a young single couple, we embraced our NYC experience by living in a Manhattan high-rise apartment with expansive views of the Hudson River, midtown & the twin towers of the World Trade Center.   With a car being exceedingly unnecessary and impractical, we absorbed the city through long walks.  Our weekends were often spent walking north from downtown to see what we could see along the way - no map, no schedule, no emergency provisions, no destination in mind - the city always provided for us.   

City life was fairly uncomplicated but often lonely for me.  The problem I faced with the city was, ironically, a sense of isolation.  I soon learned that if you’re young, single and living in the city, you’re probably absorbed in your career.  I was definitely lacking this kind of ambition.  However Dick was in a serious career growth spurt which often meant traveling for business or working long hours at the office.  With Dick gone I planned to live out my SATC (Sex & the City) fantasies of girlfriend chatter, shopping trips, great restaurants and high fashion.  But living in the city exacts a toll from those who dare to dwell within her silvery bounds.  You learn quickly to either make peace with paying that toll or you move on to the ‘burbs.

One toll I paid was sacrificing convenient shopping.  Surprisingly, shopping in a large city is NOT necessarily convenient.  This seems odd, right?  After all, when you’re in New York City, you’re in the shopping capital of the world.  What could be more convenient?  Well let’s say you want to hit your 8 favorite stores in the course of a day.  When you map it out, you realize that 3 of those 8 are on Madison Avenue between 51st & 67th, 2 more are on Amsterdam between 72nd & 81st and 3 more are on Bleeker in the West Village.  To cover those 8 stores is going to take some serious strategery (as Dubya would say) - at least an entire day and it’ll cost you a small fortune in cab fare.  The mall rat in me was annoyed by this dichotomy.  Because, while I loved the idea of the shopping trip, all that planning was too much like work.  The sterile, soulless convenience of the mall suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea. 

Another toll exacted by the city was on fashion.  Surprising, eh?  But let’s say you’re going to head out for a cross town walk to your favorite dining establishment.  You want to look city chic so you don your favorite pair of kitten heels, a fetching pair of black trousers with a white, fitted button-down shirt, a cherry red over-sized handbag and a pair of Jackie-O sunglasses make for an easy, pulled-together look.  After schlepping 4 blocks your feet are starting to ball up like the Wicked Witch of the East after Dorothy’s house crushed her.  Your heels feel like they’re being scraped of their flesh by tiny razor blades.  Even more annoying, your kitten heels keep getting stuck in the scary grates that cover the subway ventilation tubes, so now you have to constantly scan the sidewalk for potential pitfalls - what Dick calls “route planning”.   After 2 or 3 more blocks, the spandex in your trousers begins to hold in perspiration and you’re sweating like a pig in a sauna.  Your sweaty lower half is soon joined by your equally sweaty upper half as your fitted button-down shirt starts to adhere to you like a second skin - or a straight jacket.  Hair, once neatly combed into a french twist, has been unforgivably blown into a stringy mass from the wind tunnel formed by the adjacent buildings.  And that over-sized handbag you coveted when toted by Katie Holmes?  That bag weighs about 15 pounds empty and feels rather like carrying a bowling bag with a toddler inside.   This is when you realize that the glossy image of a sweat-free, well-dressed, impractically heeled and accessorized Carrie Bradshaw strutting the streets of NYC really is a fantasy.   The city demands that you think more practically.  From choosing comfortable, durable footwear to selecting reasonably sized handbags.  You and your wardrobe are going to be put through the paces.  Physical exertion combined with exposure to unpredictable weather elements and a complete lack of personal space will get to you and high fashion is for those that can afford to take cabs everywhere. 

Still, for all the planning, the hassles and the effort it takes to appreciate New York, its treasures are revealed in all sorts of little ways that remind me how fortunate I am to live in its hyper-reality.  My mind wanders back to the corner of Chambers & West Broadway where my favorite comfort eating spot “Kitchenette” resides.  So many breakfasts over the NY Times and a cuppa. 

For me, the sight of the Statue of Liberty takes me back to the bench facing the Hudson river where Dick proposed on bended knee at sunset.   Even now I can recall the green smell of the river water mixed with the faint odor of exhaust from the nearby ferries. 

Perhaps my heart both soars and falls with these memories because of the guilt & loss I feel over that part of my life being so completely and profoundly gone.   Our time in NJ - our last attempt to recapture that city magic - left me feeling unsatisfied.  The city offered up its gems to us, but we’ve changed and found the fussiness of it’s baubles unappealing.  It seems by leaving the city, I’ve paid the biggest toll of all because now my old dreams are fading and the new ones are costlier.  The dreams we have for our children are considerably less glamorous and more long term and they come with all new sacrifices that are far more complex than the mere inconvenience of cab fare or truncated shopping trips. 

From now on I’ll look back upon the city as our place - Dick’s and mine.   Florida may be home and our heart is certainly here.  But there’s a special part of our hearts that will always be in New York City.