вторник, 26 ноября 2019 г.

Is Racial Profiling Good For Our Multiculture

Rarely do I get involved with political topics, but I’ve been thinking about the multicultural environment in Arizona.  Honestly it has me irritated.  I’ve always known that Arizona is conservative state with it’s own wild west justice.  From Tent City in the desert heat to John McCain, Arizona is a different place in my book.  So when I heard that Arizona is planning to enforce their own immigration law, I was a bit shocked to hear the details.


The part that disturbs me is that the proposed law encourages racial profiling.  I didn’t grow up in the era when racial profiling was a popular tool for law enforcement.  It has been on the decline during my life.  But I’ve heard the horror stories and I’ve watched some suspicious law enforcement activity.  So I don’t understand how anything good can come from this new law.

I understand that the citizens of Arizona are concerned with rising crime rates and they feel that the illegal immigrants are the cause.  But is that really the cause of the problem or is it the excuse?  I’m sure if you use that mathematical equation, the crime rate should be low in areas like Little Rock, Tulsa, Salt Lake City or Nashville.  But that’s not the case.  What about all the immigrants from other countries?  Isn’t there a large number of immigrants from Europe, Asia and India?  Does this mean that the only safe people are blonde blue eyed people?  I’ve never heard of a blond blue eyed person complain of racial profiling.


So why am I writing about this?  Well there will be plenty of innocent people that will fall victim to this legal way to racial profile.  I’ve met plenty of biracial people who have a Hispanic/Mexican appearance.  Alpha Boy was one of them when he was younger.  I’ve spent a lot of time in South Beach/Miami area and I always get profiled as Cuban.  I’m not sure if that’s because the color of my eyes or the bright ass colors of my cloths.  Either way, nothing good can come from it.


I’m wondering what group of people in America has the largest chance of dealing with racial profiling.  I’m would guess that interracial daters deal with racial profiling more often.  Not just because that’s the topic of IDW, but because it’s true.  For years interracial daters have dealt with harassment from law enforcement. Recently I heard a story from a friend who was stopped by the police and they asked his wife if “he” was her pimp.  I almost fell out my chair laughing, but it’s still happens in 2019.

So I want to know how do you feel about the proposed law?  Is this a good thing for the multicultural environment that we are attempting to cultivate in America?  Or will this set us back 50 years?

The Thin Myth: The Early Years

The Thin Myth is the idea I dreamed up that if only I were thinner, than the world would be my oyster, as long as I chose grilled fish instead.  The “thin myth” started very young.  As I stated before, I was not a huge child, just a little chubiniski.  My weight was such a point of contention and anxiety in my household.  In the late seventies and early eighties, it was difficult to get “plus-sized” kids clothes.  They did have “huskies” for boys at places like JC Penny or Sears, but nothing for girls.  I guess we were not supposed to exist.  I would have gladly worn boy’s jeans if it meant my mother would stop sighing whenever we went shopping.  My mother and grandmother would make me clothes and I remember feeling so guilty that I would make so much work for them because I was not like other girls.  I remember standing on a chair in my grandmother’s living room while my brother was outside playing so she can hem my dress.  I remember her winkled face crinkling even more as her mouth frowned and her brow furrowed and her saying, well, I guess I have to let out the seams, again.  I remember standing in my t-shirt and panties feeling as vulnerable as ever with hot tears welling in my eyes willing them not to fall.  I remember putting on my shorts and a tee-shirt (probably with either a kitten or a unicorn on it) and riding my bike around the block over and over by myself to exhaustion.  I rode until my tears were replaced with sweat trying to somehow put as much distance between myself and the humiliation only to loop back again to the scene of the crime.  Later at dinner, when I finally had to go inside, I only consumed the number of forkfuls as I had years on earth, seven.  To my memory, this was my first crash diet.
My weight kept me back from so many activities in my life.  It was not even that my weight prevented me from doing anything physical.  What it really came down to was embarrassment.  I played basketball in fourth grade a bit, but because I was too afraid to ask my parents for new sweatpants, I quit.  I actually kind of liked the game.  I did do Girl Scouts.  Even though I did not take it very seriously nor did it “cure” my social awkwardness, the Girl Scouts it did help me be a bit more social and teach me some about nature, service to others, and how to sell some cookies.  Yeah, let’s take chubby girl struggling with her weight in an ill-fitting green skirt and have her sell cookies.
The Thin Myth continued throughout my childhood and teen years.  Even thinking about it now, how many clubs I did not join, how many activities I did not do, and how many heartbreaks I endured because of the iron clad belief that I was not good enough the way I was and if I only got my weight under control, everything would be okay.  I remember in eighth grade I did not go out for student council because I was afraid people would make fun of me.  As if being on student council in middle school is not humiliating enough.
As I have described so far is how I discriminated against myself.  I have told you how my shame and fear of anticipatory social anguish kept me back all those years.  I could tell you some sad stories about how other students, family members, even teachers would tease, berate, and bar me from activities because of my size.  Once again, even if I look at pictures an when I am very honest with myself, I was NOT obese, just not thin.  I am not going to tell those stories because to start with, they paint me in a very negative light.  Second, they are just too painful to bring to mind let alone write on “paper.”  Giving them any more oxygen to those memories just give them that much more power.  Those painful weight-related memories loom in mind like a scary black blob eating up all my happiness.  In my adult years, with a lot of therapy and self-help books, the monster is somewhat contained, caged in my memory like the boogie man, but that doesn’t mean you still leave the closet door open just in case he escapes.
The problem with the Thin Myth is that it is, unfortunately, true.  Overweight people face bias in the workplace, in society, in dating, and overweight kids face bias even from their own parents.  See the attached articles if you don’t believe me.  And if you don’t believe me, look at yourself.  Have you run across a fat kid and wonder, even in well-intentioned kindness, “What is wrong with that kid?” or “Why aren’t the parents doing anything?”  Or do you watch an obese person at a buffet and watch what they are eating and make sure you don’t choose the same thing in the mortal fear that you too will “catch the fat”?
I have forgiven the little girl I once was.  I see what was under my control and what was not.  As an adult, I am trying to make better health choices, although vanity is still a factor in my “reinvention.”  I would like to get to a healthy weight so I can live a fuller, more active lifestyle. I would also like to be in a place where people look at me and not my weight.  I would like to be in a place where people do not make judgments on my character based on my weight.  But in the meantime, I am not going to sit on the sidelines of life waiting for the magic number on the scale to tell me now is the time to enjoy life.  Right now I have to put on stiff upper lip even if I have wobbly upper thighs and face the world in the body I have now.  You have no idea what kind of courage it takes to walk around in a big body unless you have lived in one.
For more information on weight bias and the affects on the child, please see below

What does a girl gotta do to get some April Freshness?

I had a major breakdown over laundry.  I literally cried over laundry.  First week in the new place and I was all ready to do laundry in the washing machine located just outside my door.  I had gone to Wal-Mart (yes, Wal-Mart… I amnnot too good for Wal-Mart) and bought laundry detergent all ready to go.  I am an independent woman!  I can make it on my own!  But I come back to find the washer in the apt
building’s hallway is half full of skuzzy water.  I came back to the bedroom and started whine, wince, and I might have even cried just a little.  My new boyfriend looked at me trying to figure out what color of crazy I was going to be today. He just didn’t get it.
For reference, I just officially signed over my part of the
house just the day before.  That did end in tears.  It was sad.  I lived in that house with my husband for eight and a half years and I walked away.  All that comfort and security was gone.  I was leaving a good man that I am not even all that angry with, but we both know that any hope for a romantic or family life together is long past dead.  But still, it was difficult.  I would not wish that moment on anyone.  It was harder signing the house over than it was signing the divorce papers.  The divorce was documenting the end of a partnership and I knew that was over.  But signing over the house was signing over my home… my heart.  Home is where the heart is and my heart is broken.  My
house is gone.
And this is where the new boyfriend got a little hurt.  I was whining about my old house, my old washing machine and the comfort of convenience of the washer and dryer was a symbol of everything I walked away from.  I then suggested that maybe I should have gone to Florida after all.  I wouldn’t have a job right away, but I could
have lived in a “family” set up with my dad and stepmom and I sure as hell could have done laundry.  He got really hurt by this.  He was like, “what am I, chopped liver?”  Of course, he didn’t say
this because he is not a stereo-type New Yorker circa 1955.  He was more like, “You would crawl back to
your loveless marriage, run away to your Daddy’s, walk away from me, for what?  Laundry?  Because you are too good for a
Laundromat?  He had a point.
The thing about the new boyfriend is two things:  He is blunt and he will not abide by my
mediocrity.  He will not allow me to settle.  This will probably get us into some arguments, but we are both passionate people who passionately love each other and an argument about laundry will not finish us.  Besides, he’s an attorney.  He argues professionally.  With a man like that, you have to expect to have a few fights.  I know if I do not hold my own that I cannot hold his attention. Lucky for us both, I know how to push back and how to hold on.  I’m not going to let a catch like Gilley go so easily. J
So, I carried my laundry two buildings over to a free
washing machine.  I can’t help but feel
like this is a step back.  I had superb
HE front loading state of the art washer and dryer on pedestals. These machines
would not only wash your clothes, they could cleanse your soul!  I know we paid a pretty penny for them and I
hope my ex appreciates them.  I miss them
like crazy.  I told my brother about the
breakdown and he understood in a way my boyfriend could not.  It is a step back.
In big cities like New York City the Laundromat can be
humbling, but it is also seen as just another chore.  Hardly anyone owns their own home or have the
space or inclination to have washer/dryer hookups.  Laundromats can even be trendy in big cities
or college towns complete with coffee shops, Wi-Fi, and trendy people folding
their designer hipster clothing finding love during the rinse cycle.  But I do not live in a sitcom.  This is suburban Indianapolis where Laundromats
are populated by the young, the poor, and the immigrant.  I know that sounds snobby, but it is
true.  I am a 35 year-old, educated,
professional woman.  I did have a house.  I did have status and comfort.  And I lost it.  It is a shock.  Don’t judge me.
I called my brother, and he felt my pain.  He understood what a shock it could be to
wake up one day in a strange place in an apartment with a cat beside an
interstate and you have no idea how you got there.  Scrounging the apt. for change to do laundry
is sobering.
I went down to visit him and he allowed me to do laundry in
his very own HE front loading machines with softened water.  He has no idea how blessed he really is.
There are things to consider when you don’t have access to
washing machines.  Questions that you
never thought you’d ask yourself.
How many times can I “recycle” jeans before they absolutely
need to be washed?  (about 4 times)
How dirty is “dirty”?
The “sniff test” has a whole new meaning.
Reds and darks can be washed together if everything is on
cold, right?
Is underwear completely necessary?
I will love again.  I
will own a home again.  I told my bf if
he is serious about me that I care more about HE washing machine than a fancy
diamond ring.
Truth be told… I kinda want both.  I am saving up already to purchase a new house.
I will love again and I will again do laundry in my own
home!  I believe in LOVE! I believe in
ME!  I believe in laundry!  As God as my witness, I will never scrounge
for quarters again!

пятница, 22 ноября 2019 г.

“God Made Adam First” or “Revelations in the Mirror While Naked”

In the effort of “research,” I have been reading up on other blogs.  I am researching for both content and style.  I am also looking to see the “other side” of my story.  Ignorance really is bliss.
I have stumbled upon a few blogs about gay married men or gay men that have recently been divorced.  These blogs are insightful, revealing, a few of them well-written and researched.  However, by the fifth or sixth one I read I started crying.  Do not get me wrong, most of these gay men speak highly of their wives.  They speak of their strength, kindness, and mostly of their discretion.  Because they are either still married or divorced quietly, none of these women, according to their own blog’s account, made a big fuss over this whole “gay business.”  I too divorced quietly but then moved several states away because I could no longer bear the weight of a secret that was not my own.  It also hurt me to see him with other men.  Sometimes the men were friends we had in common.   As awkward as it might be at a party when two women exchange glances knowing they have slept with the same man, imagine if that exchange were between a man and a woman.
I cannot tell you how inadequate can make a woman feel when a husband, the man you believed was your soul mate, starts having sex with other men and despite all his promises and declarations, she is never sure when it started.  Even if the “other guy” is nice and gracious about it, how can a woman help but feel inferior and embarrassed?  Despite all my liberal standings and beliefs I am embarrassed and ashamed that my husband chose men over me.  If there is a greater rejection than that, I do not want to know nor would wish it on my worst enemy.
I got up from my desk in tears and went into the bathroom to change.  I was still in my pajamas and it was well past noon.  At first, I was going to just do my regular routine and push all those feelings down, ignore them and maybe have a snack.  Sound familiar?  But instead, I took all my clothes off and stood in front of the mirror naked and had a good look at myself.
I saw long dark auburn hair, green eyes, arched brows, chubby cheeks, and full pink lips that would be the envy of many a collagen fans.  I saw nice strong shoulders and nearly perfect breasts, neither too big nor too small for my frame.  I saw a too big rounded stomach with an arguably cute little navel.  I saw long legs, thick thighs, wide hips and a big round butt.  Still, despite my size and my age, I have few stretch marks and about as much cellulite as any other average woman.  I am being fair here and very honest.  But really, what is wrong with me?  I am looking at myself trying to find flaws.  Really, what is there?  Why did he not love me?  What is so unlovable about me?  Is my body so imperfect that I be rejected so?
Then I started to make a list of my unlovable attributes.  I made a list of reasons why my ex-husband or any other man would reject me.  It is well rehearsed so of little trouble to site even in my troubled mind.  The list goes as follows in no particular order:
–          My weight
–          Too smart
–          Too dumb
–          Not interested in sports
–          Unpopular interests
–          Does not make enough money
–          Too crazy
–          Too bold
–          Talks too much
–          Too repressed
–          Too loud
–          Too shy
–          Too needy
–          Too independent
Yes, some of these items contradict each other but still I hold onto this checklist constantly revising, often adding, so when I am rejected I know exactly why.  I am heaving and sobbing at this point.  I have to sit down on the edge of bathtub to catch my breath.  Such self loathing can be exhausting.  Not only do I have this list in my head, I said them out loud giving the list that much more power over me.
And the truth is… the truth that eats me up inside… the truth that will not let me go is that my ex-husband did not care about the list.  He loved me anyway.  All the reasons why I hate myself did not matter.  He loved me. But the one thing he could not love me for was the one thing I could not change and that is what is between my legs.
To me, the list of rejectables is my to-do list.  I hate those things about me too.  I want to change them and when I have accomplished the list, than I will allow myself to be loved. I can be thinner.  I can act more dumb or get smarter if you want me to.  I can maybe get a better job and be more independent while still making you feel needed at the same time.  I can change, I can do and be whatever you want….. Just stay.
Then I looked up in the mirror again.  Now that I am sitting I can only see my face.  Honestly, it is a rather nice face, unworthy of any kind of hate.  With my new eyes I see my hair lightened by the Florida sun and I still have a band of freckles across my cheeks though it is mid-winter.  Below those professionally arched eyebrows I see through blurred vision even greener eyes set off by the redness of all those tears.
When will I see myself like other men who try to love me?  When will I see a competent, beautiful woman that can make it on her own yet chooses to have a partner by her side?  When will I see the truly brave thing I did by leaving my husband and my hometown of thirty-plus years to start my life all over instead of looking at it like a retreat?
A better question still is when will I see what God sees?  When will I see a greatly loved being made in HIS image perfect and whole just as He created me?
But then I think to myself, “Even God made Adam first.”

среда, 20 ноября 2019 г.

The Knowing and the Changing: For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge

For the record, the most versatile word in the English language did not originate from an acronym.  THE WORD originated from the term fokken which means “to thrust or copulate with” (www.snopes.com).  However, this post is not about an etymology.
The Knowing….
Say whatever you want that motivates the human libido.  Old fashioned propagation of the species?  The “conquering” of foreign lands?  The pursuit of “the strange”?  Or is it some kind of ancient bartering system trading of supply and demand?  What I think, or hope in my romantic yet hedonistic mind, is that both men and women are seeking “the knowing.”
If we go by standard stereotypes, men are seeking the “knowing” of another woman, to know what pleases her and to know how his skills can please her.  Sometimes he seeks that knowledge just to use with someone else, but I do not think that skills in the bedroom are obtained through one night stands.  Usually, I think, people pull out their “best” tried and true moves with new people and anything beyond the standards are explored in deeper, longer lasting relationships.  I know that I am a little inhibited about standing on my head and whistling Dixie the first time I am in bed with a man.  I usually reserve that little trick after we have a few “Olive Garden” dates under our belts.
Maybe women are seeking the knowing in a different way.  Maybe women want to “know” men’s secrets.  It is the only power we have: the surrender some of their pride, the distraction of the desire over to us.  Or we think we can somehow “change” them through the power of our love.  The love we trade for sex, that is.  I hope that in the new “sexual revolution” women do not become too much like men.  If women do not remember sex is also about emotional intimacy, who will?
And here is why I go into the world of too much information and why I wear a mask
When I fall in love or even infatuated I am seeking “the knowing”.  I want to know the man’s mind and his heart.  This is probably why I am attracted to mostly intelligent men so I am not bored too quickly.  I want to know his body too.  I want to know if he has freckles and where those freckles stop.  I want to know if he is ticklish.  I want to know what really turns him on.  I sometimes want to know their inner dirty little fantasies even if they scare me and/or I have no intention of acting them out.  (This has backfired on me before).  I want to know what position they like best.  I want to know if they are a breast or a butt man.  I want to know if he swears, grunts, or simply sighs when he comes.
This is what I want to know.  It is what I need to know when I want a man.  It is not about my pleasure or just about the conquest or the orgasm, it is about the knowing.  That little bit of sweet happy surrender they have right after they come when their hearts and minds are as soft and pliable as their spent penises and I can shape them to my liking.  If men knew this is what women do after sex they would rush out the bedroom as soon as possible or not enter it at all.  But maybe, secretly even unwittingly men want that molding too.  The Changing.
A Little Story About The Knowing.
When was first ushered into the world of love and sex, it was like I was in the lobby of a grand play or opera but not allowed in.  I did not have the necessary ticket of attractiveness or at least guile to get much past the foyer.  I would hear whispers of how great, terrible, fantastic, and terrifying that world was from friends and movies, but it was like seeing a trailer for a foreign movie without subtitles.  You kind of want to see it, but it is not out yet and you have no way understanding the movie without a translator, but you just gotta see it anyway.
I remember this awkward infatuation I had when I was a senior in high school.  By this time, over half my class was sexually active, and that was just the ones I knew about it.  We were a suburban school about 80% white in the early 90’s so 50% of my class being sexually active is about accurate.  I was still in that lobby waiting for my ticket.  I was very interested in this boy, oh let’s call him Brian.  Brian was in my music theory class.  I had delusions of grandeur of a career in music, but let’s not dwell.  Brian played guitar but he was also involved in drama and was in all my advanced classes, so he was a nerd.  If memory serves me, I think we even was pictured in the last issue of our school’s paper was the top ten of our class.  What can I say, I have taste.  I dare say that I was not necessarily “in love” with Brian.  I think I might have talked to the boy maybe twice.  Our exchange of words barely quantifies as a paragraph.  But I remember just wanting to TALK to him.  I fantasized more about our fascinating and revealing conversations more than I imagined any kind of nakedness or anything overtly sexual.  Instead of writing my name Mrs. _____ in my notebook, I would study the music and the album covers to every band t-shirt he would wear.  The album cover of Ritual De Lo Habitual scared the hell out of my seventeen-year-old self, but I was ready to discuss if Brian happened to pass my locker randomly.
I imagined that we would hang out in a dark basement listening to Pearl Jam or Pink Floyd and discussing the essence of Kurt Cobain lyrics. And during all this talking we happened to kiss and make out that would be cool as long as it were really dark in that basement and he could not really see my body.  This is also when I started shoplifting cute panties and bras so my mother would not know that I no longer wore K-mart training bras and plain white cotton panties.
If Brian and I bored with talking about music, or we needed a break from all that dry humping, we could talk about Fahrenheit 451 or 1984 that we read on our summer reading list for Honors English because teen boys love to sit around talking about their summer reading with their female classmates.   I read Science Fiction because I thought it would make me seem cool.  At least I knew Jane Austen and Dickens were not cool.  I fantasized that we would talk about the radical changing powers of the written word or relating how our school administration was trying to “keep us down” like the Ministry of Truth trying to keep the youth of this nation docile with misinformation.  Yeah, I was a nerd.  I read dystopic science fiction and listened to grunge thinking it would somehow impress teenaged boys.  That is a good way to have an affair with a mid-thirties English professor at a local junior college, but not the way to get the cherry of the vice president of the National Honors Society who also plays bass for his garage band with his buddies.
For the record, I have never impressed a guy with my literary knowledge.  I have never had this dream conversation of staying up all night talking about how science fiction is used to make sense of modern societal dilemmas or talk about Kurt Cobain or even comic books with a man and then end up not just having sex, but joining of like minded souls with our bodies and then fuck our brains out as a political statement against the hypocrisy of society trying to dilute us of our humanity through ridiculous sexual mores.  Sounds like fun though doesn’t?
I have impressed guys with my Wonder Woman outfit and been asked to tie them up with my lasso.
Sigh…..  Why do guys have to fuck up fucking?

Why People with Food Issues Cannot Buy in Bulk.


I was going to title this “Why Fat People Cannot Buy in Bulk”
but I thought that was demeaning to myself and others and you do not have to be
fat to have emotional eating issues.
I briefly attended Overeater’s Anonymous (OA).  I really should go
again.  OA is like all other 12 step programs only you replace the word “alcohol” or “drugs” with “compulsive overeating.”  Never mock someone who is
in a 12 step and takes it seriously.  It is DAMN hard.  I never got past the fourth step that was about making a “fearless moral inventory of our lives.”  One of the things I had to “inventory” was my triggers.
Please note that even as I type this I have a sense of dread.  People brag about when they got “fucked up” or their sexual exploits even if they regret them later.  No one really wants to talk about “the secret shame everyone sees” of food
addiction.  Of course bulimics hide it better.  I was bulimic in my youth.  I still feel like a bulimic, only missing a step.  I am avoiding the topic, aren’t I?
Activities, Emotions,
Foods, and Other Situations that Trigger My Emotional Eating.
Foods:  (I will start with the easiest) There are
foods that I cannot stop eating or I buy on impulse when I feel like being mean
(or really “good”) to myself.
Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups: I freaking love this candy and I
have ever since I was a chubby little kid.  When I was very little, my brother and I were not given any candy.  We had candy at Halloween, Easter, and Christmas.  When I was old enough to be sent to the store I would get a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup or Reese’s Pieces and a Mountain Dew.  As a ten-year-old I was consuming
roughly 400-500 calories as a “snack.”  Now I will only eat the peanut buttery goodness at the assigned holidays of my youth or when I am on a road trip.
The food gives me comfort, reminds me of my first taste of freedom.
Pizza:  I had a whole post about pizza.  The first reason I
avoid pizza is because I worry about diabetes.  I have told you all I was pre-diabetic and I still have to watch out.  The second is because I can never seem to get full on pizza.  I think I go into some kind of metabolic amnesia when it comes to carbs.  Carbohydrates never fill me off and they seem to set off this vicious blood sugar cycle of ups and downs.  If there is pizza in the house, it is gone.  Just for the sake of irony, it was by pure coincidence that my ex-husband worked a second job as a pizza delivery guy when we first started dating.
Pasta:  I have the same problem with pasta as I do with pizza.  I will eat until I am just about ready to burst.  This is also a left over issue from my childhood.  Pretty much I should stay away from traditional Italian dishes altogether.
Count Chocula and other sugary cereals:  This is definitely one of my earliest binge foods.  Cereal is almost always in the house when kids are around.  It was a food I could fix for myself and eat and eat and eat and no one could tell.
If I had one bowl, I wanted four.  Let’s do the math.  One little binge of 4 bowls of cereal is approximately 480 calories.  And that is if you go by the serving size on
the side of the box which if you are binging, you are not exactly measuring.  I started the cereal thing when I was a latch key kid in the fourth grade.
To this day I hardly ever eat any kind of cereal because of the bad
memories that each bowl brings to mind.
Grocery Shopping:  I love grocery shopping, but I do not think that is necessarily a good thing.  When I feel frightened or insecure whether that fear is conscious or sub-conscious, I like to go to the grocery store.  I do not go to the store to by junk food either.  That is a late night spur of the moment walk (drive) of shame.
I like to wonder the aisles meal planning or thinking of all the good
food I am going to feed my loved ones, or pick up a box of hors douves and
fantasize about the next “impromptu” get together I would have at my
house.  I also fantasize about whatever latest diet I am on and buy accordingly.
Then I fantasize about the new body and new life I would have after the
successful completion of said diet.
Bored/Lonely:  This is when the “grazing” behavior starts.  This
is the mindless eating and snacking that can go on all day.   I am bored and/or lonely, but usually bored because I am lonely.  This was my typical day
when I had a very boring office job: I just have a granola after breakfast,
then maybe a 100 calorie pack cookies or a piece of fruit about 10 o’clock,
then about 3 o’clock I get the munchies bad and I will either have a protein
bar or pretzels. If I did not have those at my desk, then all hell would break
loose and I would hit the vending machine for a 440 calorie cinnamon bear claw
warmed in the microwave for 35 seconds for maximum warmth right before it went nuclear and the icing was like lava.  Then I would have whatever snack or bit of lunch in the car on the ride home.  I would cook a healthy “light dinner” either
before or after a workout, and then I would have a late night desert of a low
calorie ice cream bar, yogurt, or nuts.  Yeah… that is a lot of food.
Anyone else in this boat?  Grazing is the toughest habit to break
because it is the kind of behavior you barely notice.  You are never really full but you never allow yourself to get really hungry either.
Angry/Depressed:  This is the binging behavior one envisions when they watch Oprah or see “documentaries” which I think are sometimes exploitive of the very obese.  This is where I just tear into whatever is available in the pantry/refrigerator.  I am so ashamed about what I have put in my mouth over the years.  I have eaten dry ramen noodles straight from the packaging sprinkling the spice packet on top.  Who does this?  I have eaten raw cake batter.  I have mixed it up, eaten it with a spoon, ate until I wanted to vomit and then never baked what was left over and poured the evidence down the sink.  The next time I would go to the store, I would replace the cake mix so no one was the wiser…except the waist of my pants.
In these “textbook binges” I would just eat until the pain went away.  I would eat until whatever hole I had in my heart be it disappointment, loneliness, self defeat,
rejection, failure, whatever the cause, I would fill it with food.  And you know what?  It worked.  Not all those who binge or drink heavily or take drugs because they WANT to destroy themselves, at least not actively.
People binge, drink heavily, and take drugs because they want to feel something differently than what they are feeling at that moment.  That
moment is so dark, so awful, that any little pleasure, no matter the long term
(or in the case of drugs and alcohol short term) costs you just want to feel
better.  Food made me feel better. Even bowl after bowl of cereal would scrape the roof of my mouth, my teeth felt like it was coated with a film of sugar and my jaw hurt from chewing was better than whatever emotion I was feeling at that moment.
All that food eventually would fill my stomach up until I could not eat
anymore or my blood sugar would spike and I would feel calm.
I would eat until the emotional turmoil would pass.  It was as if I was caught in a storm of emotions and binging was the brief sunshine whisking clouds away.  But really, that momentarily calm was just the eye of the storm because the guilt and shame would set in.  When I was still bulimic, this is when I
would make myself vomit, take a bunch of laxatives (and I mean a lot, like 3-5
at a time 2-3 times a day) or I would exercise like a fiend or some sort of
combination.  I did not enjoy vomiting and only did it in extreme cases of shame or bloat.  I have had only the occasional bout of purging in the last few years as an adult.  Mainly working a “day job” where bathroom accessibility was an issue and
living with a spouse that would catch on to the purging put an end to the
purging.
I still binge from time to time, but not like when I was an adolescent or in my early
twenties.  Now, I graze thoughtlessly and if I really feel like binging and eating something really bad for me, it would involve a trip to the store.  I do not
have much snack food in the house either.  Pretty much everything I have is ingredients.  If I have to go through the effort of fixing something to eat even if it is canned soup, this is enough time for my bad mood to pass.  If I really want junk food, I would have to get in my car, drive to the store, and then go up and down the
aisles looking for junk food and having to consider my actions and their
consequences.  This is also enough time and forethought for the mood to pass.
This is my way of self management.  But of course, this makes living with me challenging.  Living with my diabetic dad and stepmom has
not been a huge issue because they cannot have snack food around either.  Also the guilt of eating “their” food is pretty decent deterrent.  Besides, around
them I might be depressed or angry, but I am not lonely and I can talk to
either one of them about what is causing the emotional upheaval in the first
place.  Living with my ex-husband was bad.  Before he went on this massive and
very restrictive Atkins diet, he would eat cookies by the sleeve and just have
all kinds of junk around.  He liked food and I believe has developed a bit of a warped body image now that he has to attract other males, I did not witness him seriously binge eating.  However, there were times that he would get a
pizza just for himself and eat the pizza all night and play video games.  That can’t be healthy.
Now I find myself spending much of my time with a man that
has similar eating issues to me.  I will admit to gaining 10-15 pounds in the five months or so since I have moved down here.   It is hard to tell who is a bad
influence on whom in this relationship.  But the end, I only have myself to blame for my behavior and I am the only one that can change it.

вторник, 19 ноября 2019 г.

Crushes

Why do crushes get such a bad reputation?   Sure, they are heart breaking, gut wrenching, and soul crushing monsters of disappointment that can make you worry about your own attractiveness and even self-worth for years, but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn from them.
I was a late bloomer, to say the least.  Sigh… let’s not even talk about how emotionally and physically immature I was compared to my classmates.  In fact most of these “crushes” I had were in high school.  This crush phase was so innocent and fruitless that it was more on par with what most girls my age went through in middle school.  My kind of high school crush was more one of admiration rather than desire.  I don’t even really wanted to “go out” with them.  I had no idea what people did on dates.  I imagined dates were a lot like “hanging out” only with hickies.  I had no idea.  Yes, there was one boy in particular that I guess I “desired” but even that was purely theoretical.
My first “crush” I guess was in the fourth grade.  This is the first time that I even noticed boys existed let alone had any value.  I remember I liked a boy who rode my bus.  I liked him because he was cute, whatever that meant, and he was smart, in all of the enrichment classes and I remember he had one of his stories posted on the teacher’s bulletin board with a big red “A+.”  Perhaps that is what impressed me the most.
Junior high I barely attended and would really rather not recall a single moment of that hell.  Let’s move on.
The boy I remember liking the earliest and the most after my first crush on the  “A+” kid was someone in the band.   We had many shared activities including choir and church.  How a band geek from church could get me so hot, I still do not know.  If I were honest with myself I believe that my fantasism for Christ was really my love for this boy.
He was like Jesus to me, and the Devil.  My sin and my salvation.
He was like Jesus to me, and the Devil.  My sin and my salvation. I would lie down my life for him.  Sell my soul for just a kiss.  I sought for his attention like pilgrims seek enlightenment.  Oh, how I prayed that he would just talk to me, touch me, make me real.  Save me from the sin of desire.  A thousand sins of the heart and in the flesh I committed alone in his name.
Every other girl I knew liked him too.  He hit puberty light years before any of the other boys.  He had a hairy chest and could grow almost a full beard in the tenth grade.  For some reason, my fourteen-year-old self found this irresistible.  He also had nice broad shoulders and a low singing voice.  He was also shorter than me.  I was pretty tall, I guess I still am, but this was not a detraction.  I just wanted to be near him but wanted him to not be intimidated my height (or size) and this is where I cultivated the practice of standing up straight from my torso so I’d look sophisticated (and supposedly thinner) yet I’d cock one leg out to the side and bend one knee to appear shorter.  I find myself still doing this from time to time.  It was won my absolutely no favors, only the left heels of my shoes wear out faster than my right.
I “loved” this boy, or as much as a one-sided teenaged love can be.  He
could do no wrong, I would defend him to the death even though I knew he was, at times, unkind to other girls when he’d spurn their affection, but he never once gave me any hint that there was a even a glimmer of hope we’d ever be an item.  It did kill me when he dated a neighbor of mine.  She was thin, blonde, and beautiful.  I could hardly blame him.  I’d choose her over me too.  It was hopeless, and therefore pure and untainted by experience.
To this day, almost twenty years later, I still love him.  I have met him a few times in the recent past and he still makes my heart skip a beat.  The first few minutes of even the most casual meeting I find myself finding it hard to believe.  The first time I met him after a ten year absence he was with his girlfriend.  She looked just like me.  It pissed me off.  She was tall, dark haired, a little heavy and thick in the thigh.  We both were even had similar jobs.  I felt betrayed. All this time I loved him.  I was married at the time, but still.  If I knew he were into chubby girls….   I wondered if I did have some kind of influence on him in some way.  I hope I influenced him a little when he so impacted my young life.  I still measure love and attraction based on the model of my love for him.
When we have talked as adults in flashes I remember when my love for him would keep me up at night exploring my body in the dark of my room feeling the delight of my body, the thrill of the thought of him mixed with Midwestern church-girl shame.  But now, as adults, still knowing that “Us” will never happen, what once was love now feels more like nostalgia,  He also says that I am the only girl he “never messed up with.”  He was a bit of a player for a time.  He had the kind of face and swagger that could let him get away with it.  He needs his image to remain pure in at least one girl’s memory.  It is for both our egos that we do not muddy that image with too much experience.
One of my first novel efforts was about teens growing up in an Evangelical church.  He smiled shyly and asked if he was in it.  I did not lie. He already knew he was.  Sometimes I wonder if everything I write is for or because of love.   I asked him if he thought he would
be the villian or the hero.  He said, “Why not both?”
So that is what he is.  Villian, Hero, Romantic Lead, Object of Affection, the mold in which I fashion all my futures loves.  And he knows it.  And now the world does.  And I don’t care.  Never be ashamed of love.  Even when you are in love all on your own.  There is always something to be learned.
My other crushes were less defined at required fewer criterions.
There was the boy who played the guitar and seemed really into recycling, before it was cool.
I liked one boy in my homeroom for almost an entire afternoon because of the way his “Lollapalooza” t-shirt stretched over his broad, manly shoulders.  He was on the wrestling team and played football.  I am quite certain he was unaware of my existence even though he was only a locker or two down from me for seven years.
I liked one boy because he was nice during chemistry lab and we’d write up the notes for our other “partner” who totally skated by based on the notes we wrote up for him.
I remember my heart fluttering a bit when one boy was kind of being an asshole once in class, but he did it with such panache’ I couldn’t help myself.
I fell pretty hard for one troubled young man because he was wicked smart, very funny, but had a dark side that I thought I was special because I imagined I was the only one who knew.
I had crush on one boy because he had beautiful eyes and had the coolest “Luke Perry” side burns.  Almost every other girl in my class would choose a certain basketball player as “the cutest boy in school”, but for me, it was ole’ blue eyes.  He was also so relaxed and sure of himself.  God, he was cool.
That certain basketball player never really did it for me.  Don’t get me wrong, he was beautiful.  You could check off from a list of every quality of standard of American beauty for this boy.  And I’ll tell you what; time has been good to him.  But to me he was a real person.  We had some classes and certain other activities in common so he wasn’t an ethereal object like the other boys.  He spoke to me and didn’t pretend like I didn’t exist.  He was a really, really nice guy.  In fact, if I remember correctly, he even thought I was kind of funny and I helped him with his homework although he could totally do it on his own and he never asked.
Like the basketball player, once they talked to me, it broke the spell.  I didn’t like just their looks, obviously.  Seriously, there were no real criteria of looks although most of them were of average too very high intelligence.  Dumbass “bad boys” never did it for me and they still don’t.
I really liked the idea of them.  I idolized them in my head and even some of them when I meet them as adults, except for a few noted exceptions; they still make my heart beat a little faster. It is funny.  I have met a few of these boys as men and they will still make me blush, stammer, and get all weak in my knees just as they did back then.  And let me be clear and this is not trying to be gross or anything.  This blushing and stammering is not arousal at all.  I really was not and AM not sexually attracted to them.  I didn’t see them that way at the time and even though we are all adults, I still don’t have any feelings deeper or more substantial then admiration.
Some of them have gained thirty or forty pounds, maybe their hair is thinning or completely gone, it doesn’t matter.  My heart still races and I don’t want to look at them in their beautiful eyes for fear they will read my every thought.  Of course, they are grown men now and know when a woman is attracted to them, even if it is in a girlish way.  It is like I am afraid to look at them directly or it will have some kind of opposite Medusa affect and instead of turning into stone I will melt into mush.  Yes, these guys still have this power over me.  But really, most of them are really nice and it is me who gives them this power.  They do not wield it or may even know they have been given such a power.  But they could both wound and win me with a word.
Because none of these crushes have come to fruition they can remain in my memory like postcards from destinations I will never visit with a “wish you were here” inscribed across their broad manly chests encasing their un-won hearts.  I find myself writing them into my stories here and there.  Maybe it is so close to that person they could sue if I were to ever be published and weren’t careful to mask their identity.  More often it is aspects of different guys making up a mosaic that I fashion into my own romantic interest.  Maybe a character has beautiful eyes, great sideburns, a broad chest, who plays the guitar, tells jokes, and is a chemist.  Who knows?
These crushes, these series of unrequited loves helped shape my idea of what
I really wanted in a man.  After I had my first “real boyfriend” when I was 19, my crush phase kind of ended.  At that point, I decided I wanted to be loved back.  I decided I was worth it and pining for someone who will never love me back and give me even a measure of my attention or devotion is a waste of time and can be a bit demeaning.  And that is okay for a teenager.  The teen years are custom designed for discouragement and humiliation.
But as an adult, I am really worth knowing and worth loving.  If I am worked up over a guy to make me melt, his heart better be melting too.