A Pound of Flesh...or Ten

There is a thin line between respectfully discussing spiritual things for the edification of others...and looking like a self-absorbed, self-righteous Bible-thumping idiot.  So I will tread carefully here.

Recently, my church, like thousands of others across the nation, engaged in a 21-day fast.  The purpose behind the fast is not to lose weight or cause ourselves to suffer in any way, but to draw closer to the Lord by focusing more on the spirit than on the flesh.  Some people felt called to go on a "Daniel fast", which generally allows fruits, vegetables, water, and limited carbohydrates.  Some people felt that they were to give up one or two things - some vices, maybe, like sweets or snack foods. Last year, I gave up cheese and, whining, I limped my way through three horrible, miserable, Swiss-less weeks.

Okay, so it wasn't quite that bad.  But I had really missed the point of the fast, which was to put my body's desires on hold while I pressed in and worked on my spirit's needs.  This year, I was still more lacking in the spiritual arena than I would have liked, yet I know God was with me.  I gave up dairy products, red meat and pork, sweets, pop, and coffee.  There were a few brief times when I felt I could "pause" the fast, but God gave me the strength to say "no" to my body.  I was less consistent when it came to my 21-day Bible plan.  Still, through this experience, I have developed a much healthier relationship with food.  I truly believe that is the biggest take-away that I got from these 21 days. 

Is that not spiritual enough for you?

Well, for someone who didn't even realize that, all her life, food has been a kind of idol, it's pretty spiritual.  I can trace my weight problems back to when I was about eight years old and on steroids for my asthma.  They caused dramatically increased appetite...I'm talking two Big Macs a large Coke and fries.  For a second-grader.  I porked out pretty badly, and although a little of that was redistributed when I entered puberty, I could never be accused of being "the skinny one".

Not surprisingly, I reached my peak weight in college.  Withough getting too detailed (after all, I do have a modicum of modesty to maintain), I was, according to the doctor's BMI chart, almost 80 pounds overweight.  Granted, that BMI chart doesn't take into consideration one's genetic code.  My Slovak heritage would never allow for anything less than sturdy shoulders, a full bosom and meaty thighs, no matter what any diagram says.  Still...

I didn't have a double chin.

I had three chins.

Things were bad.

Although I never came up with any particular routine after college, the combination of my two jobs - working at Starbucks and Curves - allowed me to lose a total of 25 pounds.  I looked good, and I felt good.

Then I got married.  And then I got pregnant.  At the time of my miscarriage last year, I was nearly back at that dreaded "college weight".  And I was scared.  I felt ugly.  I felt worthless.  And I absolutely hated that those feelings were coming from how I viewed my body.  What made me angry was that I had converted my husband from a pizza-a-day junkie to a salad-appreciating, fish-eating, whole-wheat loving coupon-clipper...and I had steadily gotten heavier.

I also hated the fact that I was in a position, in church and at work, to encourage young women to appreciate their bodies and consider them precious to God...but I kept speaking out in anger against my own.

During the fast, I came to the realization that I had never actually said "no" to food.  It was not quite an addiction, per se, but it was always there when I was bored, or sad, or angry, or - sometimes - actually hungry.  Although I had become a good cook and I chose healthy ingredients, I was eating out of boredom, not delight.  I was eating because it was comfortable.

(Which is also why I dated the wrong guys.  I didn't want to do without, so I overdid it.  But those guys were like soggy, over-priced ball game French fries smothered in artificial, neon orange cheese-flavored sauce and MSG-loaded chili.  Ross is like a oven-roasted baked potato with a sprinkle of sea salt, a dollop of nonfat Greek yogurt, freshly chopped chives and just a touch of sharp, natural cheddar cheese.) 

I don't know why I just got into that, but it made sense for a second there, before my analogy clobbered me over the head and took over.  Let's try again.  What I'm saying is that food had become my friend.  I was replacing healthy relationships in my life with Lunchables.  Instead of meeting a gal-pal for coffee, I would sulk at home and eat. 

In the past three weeks, there were times when I whined, or times when I came very close to throwing in the towel altogether (poor Ross; he watched me stare mournfully at the fridge morning after morning, desperately craving milk for my cereal).  But dropping five pounds and watching my blood pressure decrease slightly has given me encouragement.  Although I am adding meat, dairy and other treats back into my diet, I am being very cautious.  I'm far more aware of serving sizes, and how just a little of something often satisties more than great big gobs of it.  I'm still choosing fish and poultry over beef and pork.  I'm stopping when I am almost full - that has been a huge win for me.  I'm snacking less.  I'm making sure I have fruit every day at lunch.  I'm eating more vegetarian meals.  I'm eating purposefully.  I can feel less guilt when I indulge in a big ole burger or a pile of fries, because I know that 80% of the time, I'm making wise, careful choices when I eat.  That has made all the difference.

I feel like God answered my unspoken prayers during this fast.  When I was young, I used to pray that somehow, he would magically make me thin.  I believe he did better than that - he is making me a great cook who loves food enough to respect it, and who is no longer ruled by it.  I still have a good deal of weight to lose for me to feel truly healthy.  But yesterday, I was able to slip on a pair of jeans I haven't worn since before I was married.

That's a good sign.

Success...

...can sometimes only be glimpsed once failure has been plastered on the walls in front of you.

In that vein, here's hoping for some more success with this "counting calories" thing.  My gracious and encouraging husband remarked the other night, unsolicited, that I appeared to be losing weight.  I laughed haughtily at him and crawled into bed.  "Yeah, okay, honey," I sniffed.

I love him.  I haven't been to the gym this week, despite my sudden burst of energy and four visits there last week.

Haven't lost any weight yet.  Lost my temper?  Yeah.  Lost my resolve?  Almost.  Lost my mind?  Getting there.  At least this whole process is making me more keenly aware of what I actually eat, rather than allowing me to mindlessly gobble calories I'm not even really enjoying.  That's a step in the right direction, eh?

The Chick-Fil-A sandwich today was totally worth it.  I'll eat oatmeal all day tomorrow to make up for it if I have to.  Heck, Chick-Fil-A is always worth it.

I love you, Chick-Fil-A.

A Pound of Flesh, an Ounce of Hope

I dislike math.

I dislike math for the same reasons I dislike following recipes.  Too much structure.  Too many  opportunities to err.  To me, math is devoid of creativity.  It is the opposite of art.  There is only one way to reach a solution.  Despite being a Christian who does indeed believe in only one way to get to Heaven, I find that applying the concept of "my way or the highway" rarely works in most social exchanges.  In fact, people who behave in such a way are often labeled unkindly.

So, you see, to me, math is sort of a bully.  It says: one way.  Period.

I dislike math.

But I am now finding myself relying on it as I - sigh - count calories.

Although I hear "oh, my gosh, you are SO not fat!" from a lot of my friends, and I do appreciate the compliments, the fact remains that I have been heavy all my life.  Yes, I have learned to dress in a way that flatters my figure, and yes, I am wise enough to know that the jeggings fad is not for me.  But it has always bothered me that I never liked exercise, and that I liked food too much.  Couldn't it be the other way around?

My recent scare with abnormally high blood pressure has got me more concerned than ever about my health.  The good news is that I successfully avoided "newlywed weight gain" and have maintained my weight now for about 2 years.  This is good...because in college, my weight only ever went up.  Between working at Starbucks and Curves for several years, I lost about 25 pounds.  I gained some of that back after leaving Starbucks, but I have been holding steady.  That in itself is an accomplishment for me.  So I feel like I am ready for the next step.

Of course, in order to like - or even tolerate - exercise, I have had to associate it with something else I do like.  Visions of myself in a super-cute bikini near the ocean don't work for me, since I don't know how to swim.  My wedding has passed, so picturing myself in a wedding gown, slim and trim, doesn't help either.    What may help is imagining myself at my current weight, packing on an additional 30 pounds during pregnancy,  Eep!  That is way too scary!  So forget the visualizing.  It's bunk for me.  What is working is, of course, music.

If you think I downloaded the theme from Rocky, you would be correct.  I put a deliciously cheesy soundtrack together for myself, and I don't care who knows it.  If you aren't moved, even the slightest bit, by the opening fanfare of "Gotta Fly Now", then you are dead.  And therefore, you don't need to worry about your weight.  But for the rest of us...

Ross's employer offers a discount on health insurance if he fits into certain categories.  One requirement is that he lose ten pounds before the end of April.  Now, I certainly don't think my hubby needs to lose any weight, but he is willing to do it.  For the discount, of course.  So we've committed to losing 10 pounds in about 8 weeks.  That is a reasonable goal.  I think I can do it.

Sometimes deadlines are helpful, you know?

Several years ago I attempted to lose wight and joined an awesome website called myfitnesspal.com.  It is a great resource, but I got tired of tracking everything I ate.  That counting thing again.  But now they have an app for my phone, so I figure I will give it another go.

The best part?

Cooking burns 140 calories an hour.

I can so do this.

Sugar and Spice and Saturated Animal Fats

My lower lip trembled as I forced myself to meet his gaze.  It all came down to this, then.  I had competition.  "What does she have that I don't have?" I asked softly.

Ross paused, then replied.  "Sprinkles."

The Other Woman, dear reader, turns out to be none other than that syrupy-sweet tramp Little Debbie.  She's after men's hearts and stomachs, if not their pocketbooks, but she's a dangerous foe.  It's hard to compete with high fructose corn syrup and processed white sugar, but I have been doing my best.  In fact, as my close friends can verify, I have been trying my hand at baking again, and I have been doing quite well, thank you!  My latest triumph was a whole-wheat treat studded with delicious blueberries and topped with a sweet streusel.  It was called "Blueberry Boy Bait" and it was incredibly good!  I thought I was doing better...but then I found the enpty box of Little Debbie snack cakes in the trash.

I was furious.  I had bought them with the intention of putting them in Ross's lunches as an ocassional treat.  I mean, those things are crazy high in saturated fat and sugar.  Not to mention, they have no nutritional value at all.  Here, he had been sneaking them and then returning the box to the back of the cupboard.  I hadn't even known he'd opened it, and there the thing was, empty in the kitchen trash.  Tricky son of a gun!

It was hurt.  I was angry.  Sure, I was the Sugar Nazi...then the Sodium Nazi...then the All-Purpose Food Nazi...but I cared about his heart!  I didn't want to lose him to diabetes or high cholesterol!  And it wasn't like I was denying him sweets.  He got all sorts of yummy snacks in his lunch.  Cookies, often, in fact.  His favorite cookies - Giant Eagle "Magic" cookies - full of chocolate chips and M&Ms.  Why would he do this to me? 

I confronted him like McCarthy would have grilled a movie queen with socialist sympathies.  When had he opened the box?  When did he finish it?  Why did he decieve me?  Then, a new question popped into my head - why was I getting so mad about it?

I once read an article in a secular magazine that talked about treating your husband differently than you treat children.  For example, you're not supposed to lecture your husband about what he eats.  Feh, I sniffed.  What if your husband was eating Hot Pockets three times a day and drinking nothing but Mountain Dew before you met him?  Now, I realize...well, he was, of course...but he has improved by leaps and bounds since I started cooking for him 18 months ago.  He requests salad.  He likes spinach, pepper and asparagus.  He loves tuna and salmon.  He almost never eats red meat.  He prefers whole wheat bread to white bread.  He eats lowfat yogurt.  He likes lowfat yogurt.  He takes vitamins and a baby aspirin daily.  He takes a brisk fifteen-minute walk twice daily. 

What I am I panicking about?

Maybe I am being unreasonable because both his father and mine suffer from diabetes and sometimes seem older than they are.  I love them both too much to imagine losing them at all, much less to a preventable disease.  Maybe I worry because I know that I was so sickly as a child, and that poor health habits only contributed to my condition.  Maybe - and the most plausible reason - is that I worry because I am still struggling with the issues of trusting and letting go. 

I am, like many women, possessing of a controlling nature.  While there are many areas in life where this is a benefit, relationships are generally not one of those areas.  Plus, it makes me look crazy, worrying about all this stuff.  If God cares enough to make sure that wild animals get food, of course he is concerned with Ross's health.  My inability to trust Ross to make wise choices regarding food is synonymous with my not trusting God to take care of Ross.  Both are really bad decisions on my part, and both lead to more fear and less happiness.

And who on earth needs that?

Tonight, as we head out to a new restaurant for Valentine's Day, I will make a step in the right direction.  I won't urge him to avoid the salty fries or the greasy meat.  I'll encourage him to get something he will enjoy.

I will, however, pack for him a reduced-sodium ham sandwich, carrots, graham crackers, yogurt and a banana tomorrow for lunch.

We all have to do our part, you know.

Just not obsessively.