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.

One Year of Body Baggage

It's been a year since the first meeting of Body Baggage.  Members - you know who you are - you have trudged along and triumphed.  You have kept food diaries when necessary and enjoyed guilt-free pasta and cocktails when stigma and bad conscience threatened to overtake you.  You have asked questions of each other that would never have occurred to me.  You have brought in recipes and inspirations far beyond what I could have dreamed up on my own.  You have made appointments to meet up and exercise at the ass crack of dawn to my amazement and wonderment.  You are stronger and healthier than you were a year ago, and so am I.

Thank you for your dedication and attention to each other and to your own lives.  You have given life to a project I started on shaky ground, unsure if it would matter, and you've taught me again and again how incredibly important the support of other women can be.  You have taken me through the first year of my son's life, kept me in shape, and made me stay present when I felt like disappearing into routine and exhaustion.  You ladies have my heart.  THANK YOU for showing up, for your honesty and for giving a damn.  If any of you ever need a safe place to land or someone to pick you up on the side of the road in the middle of the night, I'm it.

Keep it up.  You're on a roll - and if you ever lose faith, the rest of us will be here to remind you of how far you've come and how much further you can go.

Mad love, Sarah

A Kiss On My Naked Hip And A Mimosa By My Bed

Today...

I woke up with a kiss on my naked hip and a mimosa by my bed.
I drank my tea in silence.
I blared music with the bathroom door wide open while taking a long, hot shower.
I shaved my legs.
I had tater tots and diet coke for lunch.
I closed my eyes whenever I wanted.

And now I am writing, without time constraint or end of nap deadline.  
Bliss.

Thank you to my husband for hearing my Mother's Day Plea and to my little man for leading me around by the hand to marvel at rocks on the ground and birds in the sky during the 30 minutes I saw you today.

It's Mother's Day, Please Leave Me Alone

My article appeared in the Nashville Scene this week, my plea for freedom.  And sleep. And alcohol.
___________________

Dear Loving Partner,

Don't take me to brunch for Mother's Day. Don't buy me flowers or chocolate. You're allowed to make me breakfast in bed, but then: Kindly disappear. Leave me to linger at the edge of sleep for as long or as briefly as I want.

If you love me, take my child away and leave me in peace. Let me stare out the window and read a book in my Wonder Woman pajamas with the dog on my lap and a big black hair growing out of my top lip. More...

Rock Your Gypsy Soul

Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic" came up on shuffle today.  Oh Van, you sing so pretty.  I listened to that song nine thousand times the summer of 1989 in Cape Cod while my 12-year-old-self was busy building bonfires, drinking peach schnapps, and telling boys on the beach that I was totally 16.

Yes, now at 36, I would like to rock my gypsy soul, please, "just like way back in the days of old."  I want a renewed sense of possibility and freedom.  I want to live like I'll never be as young as I am today because... I'll never be as young as I am today.  This is my one and only chance to be here and now, where I live, with the people I love, and I would very much like to do it without guilt, anxiety, overblown drama, unwarranted procrastination, and other such ridiculousness.

Admittedly, I'm on a bit of a tear lately about living large.  I'm harping on the passage of time a tad tiddly touch.  I think I might start wearing crazy old lady clothes, big feather hats and therapeutic shoes.  And yes, you can take that as a warning.

"Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic."

How's The Weight Loss Going?

Last December 29th, just before New Year's, I wrote a blog post in which I asked "Are you happy with the way you have felt during the last six months? Are you happy with your body and state of mind?"  It's a cliche´ (though perhaps an important one) to ask such things at New Year's.  A better time to ask is in the spring, when new-ness is happening everywhere you turn and vitamin D is seeping into your skin for the first time in months.

So I ask again... this time three months later, "Are you moving in the right direction?  Are you moving at all??" In the infamous words of the Steve Miller Band, "Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future." Just think of me as the nagging, ticking clock in your living room.

We are heading into Easter.  It's almost April, and I am hearing lots of buzz about Easter parties and candy and lots of groaning about the fact that the scale still hasn't moved. First, the issue was Christmas and New Year's, then it was Valentine's Day, and now it's Easter.  Next up: summer BBQ season.

There will always, always be a holiday, a business trip, or a bad break-up standing tall, ready to get in your way.  There will always be something taunting and tempting you, pulling you away from your goals for another day, another night, another week.  Always. Along with death and taxes, you can count on that.

So the question becomes, "How much time do you have?  How many more months of your life will pass by before you actually make the change you keep talking about?"

If living in the moment and enjoying your life, eating Cadbury eggs on Easter and drinking scotch all weekend are more important to you than losing ten or fifty pounds, bless you, free spirit! Go forth and enjoy!  If this is the case, please-please-please let yourself off the hook.  Drop the goal, and stop carrying around a miserable shadow of failure and guilt. There's no reason for it.

The problem arises when losing the weight actually is very important to you, but willpower is failing you.  If this is where you are and you can't seem to break out of it, I encourage you to STOP and STARE... stare at the Cadbury egg, stare at the sweet potato fries, stare at the pizza (each slice one-by-one)... stop and stare and consider what is about to happen... is it worth it?

Don't try to will yourself not to eat it, just pause long enough to make a conscious choice. Over time, you will increase your awareness of what matters to you and how much it matters.  You'll start to make choices that support your ambition, or you'll decide it's not worth it and move on.

If a large pizza is your best friend on a Saturday night, love it for that.  Stop and stare. Appreciate the fact that you have the option to pick up the phone and order a pizza.  Eat the whole thing if you want to, but eat it with love.  Even if there are tears in your eyes and you know you are eating to feel full and numb, appreciate it for that.  Just don't do it unconsciously.  Stop and stare.  Consider the goals you hold dear to your heart, and decide if each slice is worth it.

If you come upon a moment when your desire to wear a bikini or your fear of painful knee joints matter more than the next slice, have a pre-planned list of other stuff to do... take a walk, do your nails, get in the tub, buy a trashy magazine, move your body from the couch to the floor, stretch, pull your dog up on to your lap... do something to shake up the pattern.

At first, this might - and probably will - feel forced, cumbersome, and awkward, but eventually it does become more natural.  I can't promise that it will ever be second nature, but it can be a stopgap to help you get where you want to go.  And the choices do get easier as you go.

It's April.  The holidays are long gone.  If you've been stuck on a goal for months or years, give it some love.  Let it go guilt-free, or give it the attention it deserves.  Look at your body in the mirror, and see it for all of the amazingness that it is - because any living, breathing body truly is a remarkable device.  Take time to see the weight you are carrying (where it sits, how it curves), and decide what is worth it.  Cocktails? Cupcakes?

Some things will be worth it, and some will not.  Look at your food, and love it for being there - or toss it because your goal matters more.  Love the food, or let it go for a higher cause. But whatever you do, don't eat blindly, and get dressed blindly, and let the months and years melt away with the clock ticking relentlessly in your living room.

See it.  Stare.

Cheers to Lena Dunham and Her Panties

Love Lena.  And her panties.  And her willingness to let it all hang out.

L.A. Weekly raises a glass to Lena Dunham, Liz Lemon, and Girls.

"Maybe I don't care about being pretty, okay? 

'Cause it's a Wednesday night, baby, and I'm alive!"

Is Gluten Making You Depressed?

If you have struggled with depression, ADHD, or chronic fatigue, check out this article about celiac disease in Psychology Today.  Your problems could be caused by an allergy to wheat, rye, and barley, and doing something as easy as changing your diet could go a long way towards feeling better.  Of course, it could also be totally unrelated, but this is a sleeper cause of psychological issues that doctors often don’t consider.

I struggled with depression, fatigue, and muscle weakness for ten years and eventually developed raunchy skin legions on my outer thighs that finally alerted me to my own celiac disease.  I'll spare you the pictures, but this is a real thing and easily solved with a gluten free diet.  I wish some doctor along the way had considered diet as a possible cause instead of doping me up on pills.  There are a million gluten-free alternatives available and resources like Gluten Free Girl online that can help you get started.  Worth exploring if you are suffering!

The Breakthrough Depression Solution: Is Gluten Making You Depressed?

The Douchebag In Yoga Class... OM

I finally made it to yoga class today after several weeks of no babysitter.  I was happy. Boy, was I happy!  A guy came in and put his mat way closer to mine than was necessary.  Fine.  All good!  He was a very yogi-looking guy, extremely lean, hipster, and overly serious. Whatever.  I offered to move over to give him more space which put me right up against the wall.  No worries.  I'm happy!  We started class and were instructed to straighten our legs out to the side at 90 degrees about 6 inches off the ground, so he proceeded to place his two bare feet an inch above my nose.  Perhaps it's me, but isn't it common courtesy to be aware of your neighbors in yoga class and make whatever adjustments are necessary to get your "om" on while giving everyone else the inalienable right to breath without your feet in their face?

I gave him the benefit of the doubt - assumed he probably had his eyes closed and wasn't aware - and moved my mat for a second time, this time forward so I was up against both the side wall and the front mirror.  We came out of our first downward facing dog into plank, and I realized that the aforementioned gentleman had placed his PHONE at the front of his mat so that every time he came back into plank, he could CHECK HIS TEXT MESSAGES.  He was lithe enough to suspend himself easily with one arm while reading, typing, and then returning himself to down dog.

I wanted nothing more than to throw his phone and his bony ass out the window, but decided that it was my task to remain focused on my own practice and to let him have his.  I tried to tell myself that he must have a medical condition and an app that he had to update to keep his blood sugar at the correct level, or a family member in the hospital in dire condition and in need of constant monitoring... from yoga class.  But, probably, he was just so super important, so vitally necessary for the world to keep spinning that he had to stay connected.  I established that the latter was likely true when he started cracking his knuckles violently in the middle of savasana (the resting pose at the end of class).

When it was over, he bowed, said "namaste" loudest of all, and stayed meditative and holier-than-thou long past when the rest of us packed up our mats and blocks and got on with our days.  I actually managed to enjoy the class (love that teacher) and got a good workout.  I even learned a little something about how to stay calm and productive with a self-involved douchebag in my face.  His trip, not mine.  But seriously, dude. Seriously?

Real Change Requires Real Food, But I Don't Wanna!

I've come a long way from disaster to pretty-damn-good, a long way from sugar addict to mostly-healthy.  I'm hovering here in pretty good shape, but I wouldn't say I'm glowing with wellness or anything.  I won't be running a marathon any time soon, and my attempt at turning weekly CSA produce deliveries into healthy meals last summer resulted in a lot of rotting root vegetables.

I wish I could be like those snazzy whole food bloggers who make it look so easy:
20 Quick and Easy On-the-go Lunches!  Not so much.  I eat relatively healthy, but a whole hell of a lot of my lunches still come out of a box... an Amy's organic box, but a box nonetheless.

I keep squawking to my Body Baggage group about how I'd feel slammin' if I lost another 5 lbs or so, but with my current regimen, it's not happening. My body is not going to change if my diet remains the same.  I get plenty of exercise.  Those last 5 lbs are all about the food. I need to get real and decide if I'm happy here in mostly-healthy-land or if I want to take a leap into genuinely, deep-down-healthy-land.  If I'm not ready to do it, I should drop the act altogether. There's no point in feeling guilty about it.

If I do want to take that next step, I'm going to have to get better acquainted with my kitchen.  I'm going to have to get good with devoting time and energy to shopping more frequently and cooking every day.  The thought makes me twitch.  It's a lazy luxury to eat organic food that has been prepared, preserved and frozen for me, but I have zero doubt that I would feel a difference if I was eating real, fresh, whole food prepared by yours truly.

I'm not a cook by nature.  I don't have the skills to taste something and say, "Hey, that needs more oregano!"  Even if I had the time, I don't have the attention span to chop and stir for hours each day.  I just don't care that much.  I don't have the nurturing mama/cook-thing in me.  My family gets by with a whole lot of Trader Joe's basics, supplemented with fresh cooked vegetables or salads on the side.  We eat dark chocolate and drink red wine every night.  We have chips and crackers, boxed risottos, jars of sauces, and cans of beans crowded into our pantry.  Our freezer overfloweth with "healthy" pre-prepared foods.

I am finally coming to the conclusion to that I can only go so far putting these canned, jarred, boxed, bagged, and frozen foods into my body.  There is a giant row of cookbooks on my kitchen counter.  Staring at me.  Perhaps I should consider opening one.

For now, it's February.  It's too cold to get out from under my blankets, and I could swear it gets dark at noon... and yes, that is a big, fat excuse. I'm going to give myself a pass during these dark winter days. The produce section pretty much sucks right now anyway. Or that's what I'm telling myself.  The cookbooks will stay where they are for a few more months, but I'm declaring out loud in preparation for the summer...

I need to make a decision.  Am I happy with eating healthy kinda sorta?  Or do I want to actually do it right?  Not sure yet.  Will report back when the sun comes out.

P.S. To the "friend" who introduced me to the vegan, gluten-free dessert bar at The Wild Cow... PTHHHH.