How Joan Didion Taught Me to Respect My "Lard Ass" Just the Way It Is

Photo: Brigitte Lacombe, NYmag.com

Joan Didion wrote: 
“Self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth.”  

I hereby raise my right hand, place my left on a first edition copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem, and declare that this is the gospel truth.  It is possible to break the cycle of self-inflicted trash talk that leaves you beaten and bleeding and nurture a new normal that lifts you up. 

For over a decade, my “habit of mind” was as follows: “Lard ass.  Who do you think you are? Somebody special? Everybody knows you aren’t funny. Nobody wants you at that party anyway - you and your fat ass. Don’t even dream you’ll get through the night without losing your train of thought mid-sentence or inhaling a steaming pile of deep-fried cheese sticks. What a joke. Go home and make love to your couch. You’ll be better off.”

I was a master - a shining example of how to tear yourself down to nothing.  “Skinny” was the goal, and anything short of skinny meant I was a failure.  Being a failure meant I might as well resign myself to stuffing my face with the blinds pulled down every night.  At least I wouldn’t be hungry.  I had it all worked out.

Skinny was my particular objective, but it doesn’t really matter what the unmet goal is.  Everybody has his or her own personal measuring stick – talent, education, fashion – whatever it is, you are convinced you don’t have enough of it.  The deficit lodges in your skull and screams at you.  It is the thing you flog yourself with mercilessly on a daily basis, and everything else in your life suffers because of it.

The happy news is that if you should find yourself in this situation, with a “habit of mind” such as this, by default you have become very skilled at training yourself to believe your own thoughts. You just happen to be choosing destructive ones.  Whether they originated with a parent, a bully at school, an ex-lover, or in your very own mind, you are the one keeping those thoughts alive now. The situation is under your control.

If you’re crazy good at convincing yourself that you suck and you’ve been at it for years, you’re likely pretty persuasive by now.  And if you’re an expert at self-manipulation, there’s no reason you can’t be just as good at convincing yourself that you are perfectly capable of rocking the workout, the dress, the job interview, and the party - all on the same day.

There is a way to “develop, train, and coax” the mind by repeatedly, almost ritualistically, nurturing healthier thoughts and disregarding destructive ones. The first and most important step is to distinguish between the two. Then keep vigil, taking note of the moments when you feel grounded and strong - sustaining those and rejecting unfounded beliefs that reinforce suckiness where no suckiness exists. Reject them as bull-honky because that's what they are.

You would never treat your best friend this way. So why treat yourself worse than you would treat someone you love? Do what you would do for her. Refocus on the positive and the possible.

           

Boosting a positive “habit of mind” requires shaking things up a bit, doing things that make you feel good about yourself or make your heart race. Take a solo trip to Costa Rica for two weeks to learn how to surf. Bring flowers from your garden to a neighbor, or foster a homeless pup. Tell your roommate – once and for all – that it really pisses you off when she steals your parking space and your f*&#ing girl scout cookies.

           

Getting skinny would never have fixed anything for me in and of itself.  I had to change the way I approached the perceived inadequacy. I had to find something productive to do rather than fixating on what I didn't like about myself. I needed to exercise to feel stronger and eat better to clear my head. A decade of trying to get thinner led nowhere but higher on the scale. Bonus – when I finally decided to do some things that made me feel better, I lost weight because I wasn’t busy medicating low self-esteem with food.

I had to learn that skinny chicks don’t possess any more self-respect than fat chicks and that my own dignity should have nothing to do with my weight.  I know skinny-minis who smoke, cry in their cocktails, and spend hours getting ready to go out because they think they look ugly in everything.  And I know voluptuous powerhouses who complete triathlons and eat tomatoes out of their own gardens.  

Self-respect is about taking care of yourself and others, making choices that make you a little better, a little stronger, a little healthier everyday.

As a personal trainer. I hear people all the time pining away for weight loss, love, a better house, a better job – fill in the blank – as days and years pass them by.  Those are fine goals to have, but none of those external things will lead to genuine happiness.  Only self-respect will do that... being someone you can be proud of every day of your life whether or not money, true love, or mini-skirts are in your future.

Joan Didion believes that there is a method - a concrete, tangible way out - and so do I.

Your thoughts are yours. Own them. Coax the good ones forth.

The Most Ridiculous, Discouraging Weight Loss Headline of the Year:

OBESE STOMACHS TELL US DIETS ARE DOOMED TO FAIL

-Science Daily

This headline by Science Daily is shamelessly pimped out to get traffic without any regard for the millions of people who will click on it and quit reading before they reach the end of the article, believing they have found yet another reason to give up once and for all on getting healthy and losing weight. Worse, it's not even an accurate representation of the science that appears at the heart of the article. 

Come, all ye fatties, and feed on the trough of inadequacy. 

And did they have to use an image of a stomach that looks like a big, sweaty dude at a wedding reception, torn between sidling up to the dessert table or the hotel concierge? Even if people are "doomed to fail" at losing weight, it doesn't mean they have no sense of style... or clothing size for that matter. Obesity doesn't have to look like that.

If you read on, the message is certainly discouraging but doesn't exactly rise up to condemn us all to a lifetime of collapse and decay. It goes on to say that - in people who have consumed a high-fat diet for extended periods - the nerves and hormones that kick in to tell us we are full are not working properly.  The problem persists even after people have changed their diets and lost weight - maybe permanently, but maybe not. More studies are needed.

No doubt, it's depressing. The study was funded by the National Health and Medical Research Council. These people are legit - but if you read the study like Science Daily does and look at it through the end-of-times perspective they present in their headline, you'd be led to believe that if you've ever been fat and would like to live slimmer, you are DOOMED TO FAIL. Awesome.

It's a bullshit reading of the implications of the science, and whoever titled this article should be ashamed of him/herself.

The news coming out of this study is actually extremely helpful. It lets us know what we're up against. Without that information, without realizing that the messages traveling to our brains have fallen down on the job, we don't have a shot in hell of trying to combat it. If we press on, unconscious of the facts, Science Daily is right, we are doomed.

But if we lean on this knowledge, we can find a new way to define hunger and fullness - because what these scientists are really talking about is satisfaction - and there is definitely a middle ground between hunger and satisfaction.

Generally, for people with normal brains and stomachs, this precarious middle ground can be found about halfway through a meal. They are no longer starving but want to keep eating, looking for that magical sensation of satiety, fullness, and peace. Pretty much everybody blows right on past this halfway point - hyperspeed pasta party - in search of that glorious release. We are not accustomed to paying attention to this middle sensation, stopping to look for it, but if we want to lose weight, we have no choice but to get up close and personal with it.

What I take from this study is that obese and formerly-obese people should understand that the message to stop eating may not kick in for them soon enough. If your brain and stomach aren't connecting right, you can't rely on them. 

The loss of that feeling of satisfaction is something worth mourning. It is a very real loss, but it most definitely does not mean that you or your diet are "doomed to fail." It means you have an extra hurdle to jump.  And having this information gives you a whole hell of a lot more power than you had before you knew it. 

If we understand that our brains will consistently tell us to eat more than we need, maybe we have a fighting chance of doing something about it.

Try looking for that different sensation. Look for the middle ground. Look for "not being hungry" rather than being "satisfied." They are two very different things. And plan ahead so you do get eat to "satisfaction" once a week, or twice a week, or however many times you need to feel sane. Look forward to it. Choose those times and savor them, but the rest of the time - the rest of the normal, daily, boring time - eat until you are not hungry instead of eating until you're full.

And use studies like this to shape your strategy rather than beat yourself down. Before we buy into inflammatory, misleading headlines, we need to dig a little deeper and see how we can use the information to our advantage. Or just ignore the static. 

Don't let flashy, traffic-driven headlines determine whether you win or lose. And make sure to show up at the wedding looking and feeling sleek and confident, no matter what size you are.

Science Daily, your headline sucks. Next time, give us a little credit.

SLEEP, PEOPLE!

With all the dietary changes, exercise classes, new recipes and weekly menu planning that we do in pursuit of better health, we forget that the most basic thing could be keeping our weight loss goals and overall wellbeing beyond our grasp: SLEEP.  Most of us desperately need more sleep and downtime with screens turned off.

I am guilty as charged. I find myself, several times a week after midnight, staring bleary-eyed at my computer or TV, trying desperately to grab onto a few extra minutes of non-work, non-family "me time." But it's actually not "me time" because when I finally snap out of it, I realize that I have been lost for hours in the clutches of ebay or Bravo. It is distracting, stimulating and totally unproductive - the opposite of restful.

The New York Times published an article recently about the impact of sleep on weight gain. Basically, scientific studies have shown that when we are sleep deprived, we crave fatty, sugary, high-calorie food.  There's no debate about that, and, on top of those cravings, now we know that lack of sleep also disables the prefrontal cortex, the rational, decision-making part of the brain that helps us make measured, healthy decisions.  It's a one-two punch: cravings for crappy food combined with an inability to make rational decisions.  If you've started your day with too little sleep, you are valiantly fighting a losing battle.

The only way around it is to be proactive. Figure out what time you would like to be asleep and turn the screens off an hour in advance. Settle in to a good book, a trashy magazine, a cup of herbal tea, or a hot bath. Stretch, or take a gentle walk around the block. Whatever you do, don't pay bills or try to get any work done.

Like I said, I'm guilty as charged.  So this week and next, I'm going to give it a go. Screens off by 10:30. Precious sleep by 11:30. If I can do that... oh, the places I'll go.

Walkin' After Midnight

This article appears in The East Nashvillian Sept/Oct 2013 Issue, p. 29

When I traded Los Angeles for Nashville in 2007, I did it with more than a little trepidation. The guy I was shadowing was a 40-something entrenched bachelor, a drummer who had been on the road for decades. My creative heart was broken in L.A., and I was in search of a fresh start. As I dreamed of a new home with lush green trees and summer storms, I also felt my throat tighten at the thought of long, dark, winding roads with sporadic street lights. I would miss my city streets.

Over the 10 years I spent in New York and L.A., I developed a habit of walking for hours in the middle of the night. It was a form of therapy I cultivated in my twenties to deal with catastrophically bad body image and mounting anxiety. No matter how many late-night slices I ate, no matter how many cocktail waitressing gigs and temp jobs I got fired from, I could always walk. The sidewalks were my lifeline, and they were free.

When I made the move to Tennessee, for my sanity, I needed to know I would have sidewalks to pace long after everyone else pulled the blinds and crawled into bed. Steps from my front door, I longed to be able to turn left or right and start strolling.

When I landed in the heart of Lockeland Springs, I discovered I could breathe. The sidewalks went up and down hills, passed by old houses in various states of rehabilitation, and opened onto Shelby Park. At the time, Five Points was growing, but I never dreamed I would be lucky enough to live squarely in the middle of what I can only describe as one of the most welcoming neighborhoods I have ever known.

Over the years, as I walked - accompanied by my four-legged babies, Elvin and then Ringo - I put on my headphones and watched the transformation of East Nashville through the eyes of Will Hoge, Jack Silverman, and Erin McCarley. I saw storefronts come and go, and one day noticed that they came and stayed. Structures were erected in empty lots to house shops for people who create things with their hands and display them for voyeurs like me, Elvin, and Ringo.

The sidewalks have introduced me to people who care for five, six, or even seven foster dogs to keep them from being euthanized by Metro Animal Control. They rescue these bedraggled souls from the street, provide them medical care and doggie biscuits, and treat them like family until they find forever homes.

I walked nightly until I found an outdoor patio with a beautiful, tattooed waitress who brought me cabernet while I looked up at the stars, inhaling the maple trees and knockout roses framing the view.

When I had a baby not too long ago - a small human who keeps me homebound more than I might like - the sidewalks emancipated me in a whole new way. The mini-man and I have struck out for epic walks almost every day since he was born, and the neighborhood has continued to stretch and yawn wider and deeper than I ever could have imagined.

It has risen up with a Pavilion two blocks from my house that hosts weekly concerts and Sunday brunches. It has surprised me with a Hootenanny just a few blocks further flung where I can sit under a tree with my boys (two- and four-legged), drink lemonade, and watch the sun go down with music dancing in my ears.

I do a double-take at least once a week, walking by a house that was transformed seemingly overnight or a restaurant packed to overflowing where there used to be a hair salon. I have found a yoga studio, an ice cream shop, two farmers markets, and a park with a picnic table and an unrestricted view of a gleaming fire engine… every little dude’s dream come true.

When I moved here, I was looking for a place to heal, a place where it would be okay that I came from L.A. and wasn’t all that enamored with cowboy hats. I had one non-negotiable. My need for sidewalks led me to East Nashville, a place where I can start walking and never stop.

Recently, Karl Dean has taken to fixing my sidewalks, making them smooth and shiny, and he will never know the depth of my gratitude… and the gratitude of all the dog walkers, stroller pushers, and little ones learning to walk who will traverse the safety of our East Nashville sidewalks in the years to come as we watch schools, hookah shops, and sushi restaurants pop up like dandelions in the summer sun.

Out on the Ranch with Papa's Buffalo

I just got back from four days on the outskirts of Oklahoma City.  Ken, Sky, and I went to see my Nana who is nearly 90 and alone after losing Papa three years ago.  Her heart isn't doing so well, and we want to make it out to see her as often as we can.  

We stayed at the Ranch that Nana and Papa built over many decades in the "show barn" they turned into a monument to their love and travels, with trinkets from all over the world on every table, mantle, and counter top for Sky to discover.  

We rode Papa's medical chair lift up and down the stairs for entertainment. 

We hung tight with the Buffalo that were his babies and the bulls that were a large part of his livelihood.  

The stillness out there is soothing in a way I forgot, the creaking of the screen door.  We were in bed each night by 10 p.m. with no internet or tv to keep us up, and still, after 10 hours of sleep, we found ourselves sinking into the silence, drifting off mid-afternoon in the heat.  There was dust and hay.  Both of my boys were snotty upon leaving, and my eyes were fire engine red.

I did everything in my power to eat as I usually would, but my gluten-free pescetarian diet was an anomaly there.  I ordered a salad with no chicken on it which came dutifully doused in bird and a spinach salad with shrimp I imagined would be grilled that came double-dipped and deep-fried in batter.  I ended up with a bun-less veggie burger and a pile of french fries two out of four nights.  But it didn't matter at all.  

Seeing Nana's reaction to Sky's shrieks of joy in a fancy restaurant and her comical consternation at his relocating her knick knacks all around the house was enough.  I wish Papa could have been there.  He would have loved it all: the chair lift, the shrieks, the kids from the city with hay fever, and the chaos of an almost-two year old repeatedly asking to revisit the tractor. 

Sometimes food doesn't matter.  It just doesn't.