The magic of a good toast, the clinking of the stemware, the energy of everyone celebrating the same thing at the same time. I love weddings! I truly do. It’s a reason to put on a nice dress, see my date looking very handsome in a tux, and reconnect with old friends that have been separated by thousands of miles. It’s also a great opportunity to make new friends. And what is the easiest way to make friends at a gathering like this? Over food and drinks, of course. Lots of food, and lots of drinks. Calories, shmalories when you’re celebrating the love of a great couple, right?
I recently flew down to New Orleans for a wedding. It was fantastic. I couldn’t be happier for the bride and groom, they were just aglow with love and excitement. There were around 200 guests, and very tasty champagne. Dutiful staff made sure a glass never emptied before more was served and the food was excellent. Delicious cheese plates (you all know how happy those three words make me), crawfish remoulade, beignets… all to die for. And who is keeping track? Can you see how this would spell disaster for a woman who struggles with binge eating tendencies?
All in all, I kept myself in check. I was actually quite proud of myself. While food was on my mind the whole time, it was not in my mouth the whole time. It did, however, highlight the culture of “joy equals food indulgences” with frightening clarity. Especially in social circumstances. A cocktail is an expected prop. It’s a culture of mingling by the bar, snatching a goodie from the passing trays of hors d'oeuvres and throwing caution to the wind.
I suppose, unless you’re a wedding planner, being careless in your celebrations of matrimonial bliss are few and far enough between to enjoy yourself freely. And when my boyfriend is as cute as he is, there’s no way I’m choosing a calorie counter over him as a date.
So at the end of the day, cheers to the happy couple! I wish you a life time of happiness and blessings. * clink *
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Unglamorous Truth
Glamour magazine conducted a survey of 33,000 women called ‘Feeling Fat in a Thin Society’. Here are some of the results:
• 75% of the respondents said they felt too fat.
• 95% said their weight affected their feelings about themselves
• Given the choice of losing weight, happiness in a relationship, success at work, or hearing from an old friend, nearly half the women said losing weight would make them happier than anything else.
This survey was taken in 1989. 20 years later, the results are the same.
20 years: No evolution, no progress, no advancement.
Americans spend $33 billion a year on losing weight. 20 million women have eating disorders. 25% of all men are constantly dieting, 50% of all women. 9 out of 10 people who lose weight on a diet gain it back. For those who fail on a diet this year, there will be 30,000 new diet plans next year to choose from.
I know there has certainly been more education between my generation and the generation of my mother. To counteract the benefits of that, there has also been more glamorization of underweight models and actresses. Yet the level of neuroses remains consistent. Of the responses, that which caught me most off guard was that half the women chose losing weight to be their number one ideal. Over happiness in a relationship? Really? Over success at work? Honestly?
What else would women choose being thin over… a paid off mortgage? Living five healthy years longer? Getting to have one last conversation with a deceased love one? While there is no way to prove it, I suspect the results wouldn’t change much if they were offered these options. It’s an obsession and one that seems to be encouraged. I guess the real question is: What is worse? A) Having a world where women are bigger than the standards represented in the media, or B) Having a world where women are so seduced by the unrealistic standards that we strive for them at the sacrifice of success, love and happiness?
• 75% of the respondents said they felt too fat.
• 95% said their weight affected their feelings about themselves
• Given the choice of losing weight, happiness in a relationship, success at work, or hearing from an old friend, nearly half the women said losing weight would make them happier than anything else.
This survey was taken in 1989. 20 years later, the results are the same.
20 years: No evolution, no progress, no advancement.
Americans spend $33 billion a year on losing weight. 20 million women have eating disorders. 25% of all men are constantly dieting, 50% of all women. 9 out of 10 people who lose weight on a diet gain it back. For those who fail on a diet this year, there will be 30,000 new diet plans next year to choose from.
I know there has certainly been more education between my generation and the generation of my mother. To counteract the benefits of that, there has also been more glamorization of underweight models and actresses. Yet the level of neuroses remains consistent. Of the responses, that which caught me most off guard was that half the women chose losing weight to be their number one ideal. Over happiness in a relationship? Really? Over success at work? Honestly?
What else would women choose being thin over… a paid off mortgage? Living five healthy years longer? Getting to have one last conversation with a deceased love one? While there is no way to prove it, I suspect the results wouldn’t change much if they were offered these options. It’s an obsession and one that seems to be encouraged. I guess the real question is: What is worse? A) Having a world where women are bigger than the standards represented in the media, or B) Having a world where women are so seduced by the unrealistic standards that we strive for them at the sacrifice of success, love and happiness?
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Me: In 60 Seconds Or Less
Let’s give the short story of my life until this point: Youngest of three kids, had a single mom, a worthless father who hasn’t been a part of my life since I was three and was rightfully forced out of the picture and into prison after causing major devastation. Mom worked insanely hard, and my dear Grandma lived with us and helped raise us. Moved around quite a bit. Were very poor as a family and clawed our way in to the middle class. Learned from my Mom to be fiercely independent. Always a teacher’s pet and a hopeless romantic. First love was in high school, ended cause he cheated on me. Moved from a small town in CA to the Big Apple on my own when I was 18. Second love was in college, ended cause he cheated on me. Worked many day jobs while pursuing an acting career. True love is a real catch, and I’m holding on to him with both hands. He’s a man I’d say yes to. * blush *
So there it is. On paper it seems typical, a life full of challenges, a life full of love. Probably sounds like a lot of stories out there. I’ve rattled it off a million times to a million people and always get the same response. Something to the effect of ‘You’ve been through a lot, I’d never know it unless you told me because you are so happy!’
Then, yesterday, I got a different response. Someone I barely know said, ‘Wow, with constant change around you your whole life, you must feel a deep need to be in control.’ Stopped me in my tracks, the happiness I wear on my face slowly faded. I looked at the lady like she had three heads (and violating x-ray vision). Her ten second evaluation embarrassed me. Had I stumbled into a therapist without knowing it? It became clear why they have couches in their offices! I admit, the rest is a bit of a blur. I think I nervously rattled off some hackneyed cliché that surely didn’t impart anything meaningful and escaped the conversation as quickly as I could. I hurried towards my home feeling stripped. When I got there, and the rest of the world was locked outside my front door, I felt so angry at the woman. How dare she go off script! How could a relative stranger have the nerve to accuse me of being controlling! I had been perfectly pleasant! If she only knew! If I needed to be in control, I wouldn’t be so out of control so regularly!
Oh… wait…
I have heard that compulsion is despair on the emotional level.
My head was starting to connect the dots… control issues… image maintenance… hiding evidence… restriction… reward… binge… guilt… losing control… leading to despair… leading to compulsion…
This gave me a lot to think about. I can’t really remember a time that I felt completely hopeless, regardless of circumstances. More often than not, in dire situations, hope is the only thing that gets me through. I’ve been known to be the girl who takes the ‘I can find a way to fix it’ attitude. Described as a personal cheerleader for my friends, I’ve worked hard to always keep the hope alive. I can’t say despair is something that feels familiar to me- except when it comes to my body.
When a ‘deep need to be in control’ was suggested, I immediately assumed she meant control of others. Maybe she didn't. I’ve learned the hard, painful way that you can’t control others. You can’t make them stay, or leave, or be good, or hurt you. They do all of that on their own, regardless of you. It’s a terrifying truth, and a liberating one. The only thing I can control, is myself… well, most of the time.
People will draw whatever conclusions they choose from my one-minute bio. I can’t change the past, or what they think, and I don’t know that I would want to. Every second I see coming at me in my future is just as soon in my past. So, here is the future I hope to add on to the end of my story:
Happily married, mother of four children, and two dogs. Successful actress. Loving home. Remains close with friends and family. And if not, that’s okay too.
So there it is. On paper it seems typical, a life full of challenges, a life full of love. Probably sounds like a lot of stories out there. I’ve rattled it off a million times to a million people and always get the same response. Something to the effect of ‘You’ve been through a lot, I’d never know it unless you told me because you are so happy!’
Then, yesterday, I got a different response. Someone I barely know said, ‘Wow, with constant change around you your whole life, you must feel a deep need to be in control.’ Stopped me in my tracks, the happiness I wear on my face slowly faded. I looked at the lady like she had three heads (and violating x-ray vision). Her ten second evaluation embarrassed me. Had I stumbled into a therapist without knowing it? It became clear why they have couches in their offices! I admit, the rest is a bit of a blur. I think I nervously rattled off some hackneyed cliché that surely didn’t impart anything meaningful and escaped the conversation as quickly as I could. I hurried towards my home feeling stripped. When I got there, and the rest of the world was locked outside my front door, I felt so angry at the woman. How dare she go off script! How could a relative stranger have the nerve to accuse me of being controlling! I had been perfectly pleasant! If she only knew! If I needed to be in control, I wouldn’t be so out of control so regularly!
Oh… wait…
I have heard that compulsion is despair on the emotional level.
My head was starting to connect the dots… control issues… image maintenance… hiding evidence… restriction… reward… binge… guilt… losing control… leading to despair… leading to compulsion…
This gave me a lot to think about. I can’t really remember a time that I felt completely hopeless, regardless of circumstances. More often than not, in dire situations, hope is the only thing that gets me through. I’ve been known to be the girl who takes the ‘I can find a way to fix it’ attitude. Described as a personal cheerleader for my friends, I’ve worked hard to always keep the hope alive. I can’t say despair is something that feels familiar to me- except when it comes to my body.
When a ‘deep need to be in control’ was suggested, I immediately assumed she meant control of others. Maybe she didn't. I’ve learned the hard, painful way that you can’t control others. You can’t make them stay, or leave, or be good, or hurt you. They do all of that on their own, regardless of you. It’s a terrifying truth, and a liberating one. The only thing I can control, is myself… well, most of the time.
People will draw whatever conclusions they choose from my one-minute bio. I can’t change the past, or what they think, and I don’t know that I would want to. Every second I see coming at me in my future is just as soon in my past. So, here is the future I hope to add on to the end of my story:
Happily married, mother of four children, and two dogs. Successful actress. Loving home. Remains close with friends and family. And if not, that’s okay too.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Can’t Talk, My Mouth Is Full
Networking… It’s one of those things you either don’t mind, or something that can induce a panic attack. I was dragged into a company party last week that was held in our office. Steadily I saw guests arriving one after another. I dutifully placed my name tag on my sweater, resolving to strike up some delightful conversation with the guests.
Let me stop here for a moment. I think it’s important to clarify that after working at my company for two years, I still don’t know how to answer a basic question such as ‘What do you do?’ It’s not that I haven’t been paying attention. In fact, I really don’t know why it is, but you’ll have to trust me when I say I’m not alone. I’ve seen many a colleague use a delay tactic- either coughing, laughing or repeating the question a la… ‘Oh, you want to know what it is that WE do…’ Each of these maneuvers is followed by a mumbling where ‘innovation’ is the only discernible word in a jumbled nest of mutterings. That might begin to explain why I dread these events.
That being said, I also don’t like waxing on about myself to complete strangers. That’s probably shocking, that I, the author of a public blog in which I spill my guts about a deeply personal issue, would have troubles gushing about herself. But it is true- and hey, my blog is anonymous for a reason. Still I’m capable of making an effort to stretch outside my comfort zone. So what do you think I did after I carefully placed my name tag on my chest, and the next guest slowly opened the door to our office? I instantly ducked into the room where the drinks were being chilled, of course! *Whew* That was a close one. I narrowly escaped chatting business with a stranger.
I knew I couldn’t keep that up all night and I was starting to panic. I tried everything in the book. I pushed a button to make my phone vibrate so that I could leave the room to take my ‘call’. I went to the bathroom with embarrassing frequency to have moments away from the high pressure situation. When people were approaching me I would turn my back to them and start gesturing emphatically to a coworker of mine that I was really comfortable with. I was moving around so much that I’m sure I looked like the most interesting person in the room, and that’s why these visitors seemed attracted to me like a moth to a flame.
Inevitably, I was cornered. I found myself up against a literal wall, with nowhere to turn, and smiling strangers approaching. Alarms were going off in my head, sweat beads were forming at the nape of my neck. Almost as if I heard a choir of sweet angels singing from above, I found my getaway...
THE CHEESE PLATE!
I mean, I had a deep love for cheese to begin with. In a split second that love grew exponentially. Someone introduced themselves and said they were having a fascinating conversation about blogs and wanted to know what my favorite one was. All that came to mind, in my horror, was my own blog- and there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to out myself. Instead I said something vague like ‘There are so many to pick from, what’s yours?’ and immediately popped a lovely cube of cheddar in my mouth. It was heaven. Not only was it tasty but it gave me a legitimate excuse to not talk. Wouldn't want to be rude to our visitors, after all.
The stranger in the nice Italian suit responded and asked another question of me. Thank heavens for the cheese, I was able to shrug, point to my chewing mouth and sputter an awkward laugh through my nose. I was safe. He kept on talking, and I kept on eating. Another cheddar cube, and a Ritz. A scoop of the Humboldt Fog and a water cracker. Mmmm, the Manchego was to die for. What? Stranger? Did I bore you? Is that why you’ve moseyed on? Darn!
I think I ate my weight in cheese that night. I know it can’t be healthy, and I did feel a little iffy on the subway ride home… but what is a girl to do? They call it comfort food for a reason.
Let me stop here for a moment. I think it’s important to clarify that after working at my company for two years, I still don’t know how to answer a basic question such as ‘What do you do?’ It’s not that I haven’t been paying attention. In fact, I really don’t know why it is, but you’ll have to trust me when I say I’m not alone. I’ve seen many a colleague use a delay tactic- either coughing, laughing or repeating the question a la… ‘Oh, you want to know what it is that WE do…’ Each of these maneuvers is followed by a mumbling where ‘innovation’ is the only discernible word in a jumbled nest of mutterings. That might begin to explain why I dread these events.
That being said, I also don’t like waxing on about myself to complete strangers. That’s probably shocking, that I, the author of a public blog in which I spill my guts about a deeply personal issue, would have troubles gushing about herself. But it is true- and hey, my blog is anonymous for a reason. Still I’m capable of making an effort to stretch outside my comfort zone. So what do you think I did after I carefully placed my name tag on my chest, and the next guest slowly opened the door to our office? I instantly ducked into the room where the drinks were being chilled, of course! *Whew* That was a close one. I narrowly escaped chatting business with a stranger.
I knew I couldn’t keep that up all night and I was starting to panic. I tried everything in the book. I pushed a button to make my phone vibrate so that I could leave the room to take my ‘call’. I went to the bathroom with embarrassing frequency to have moments away from the high pressure situation. When people were approaching me I would turn my back to them and start gesturing emphatically to a coworker of mine that I was really comfortable with. I was moving around so much that I’m sure I looked like the most interesting person in the room, and that’s why these visitors seemed attracted to me like a moth to a flame.
Inevitably, I was cornered. I found myself up against a literal wall, with nowhere to turn, and smiling strangers approaching. Alarms were going off in my head, sweat beads were forming at the nape of my neck. Almost as if I heard a choir of sweet angels singing from above, I found my getaway...
THE CHEESE PLATE!
I mean, I had a deep love for cheese to begin with. In a split second that love grew exponentially. Someone introduced themselves and said they were having a fascinating conversation about blogs and wanted to know what my favorite one was. All that came to mind, in my horror, was my own blog- and there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to out myself. Instead I said something vague like ‘There are so many to pick from, what’s yours?’ and immediately popped a lovely cube of cheddar in my mouth. It was heaven. Not only was it tasty but it gave me a legitimate excuse to not talk. Wouldn't want to be rude to our visitors, after all.
The stranger in the nice Italian suit responded and asked another question of me. Thank heavens for the cheese, I was able to shrug, point to my chewing mouth and sputter an awkward laugh through my nose. I was safe. He kept on talking, and I kept on eating. Another cheddar cube, and a Ritz. A scoop of the Humboldt Fog and a water cracker. Mmmm, the Manchego was to die for. What? Stranger? Did I bore you? Is that why you’ve moseyed on? Darn!
I think I ate my weight in cheese that night. I know it can’t be healthy, and I did feel a little iffy on the subway ride home… but what is a girl to do? They call it comfort food for a reason.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I'm Four Years Old
At a party, where I spent most of my time hovering over the delicious snack table, the issue of body image came up. In conversation somebody mentioned that if you are anything over a size 8, it’s harder to get any kind of job, even reception work. I am over a size 8. I might soon need to be looking for work. You can imagine how this made me feel while I was inhaling a cupcake- with extra frosting.
The first time I was told I was fat was when I was four years old. It’s funny, I don’t even remember who it was that told me I was fat. I just remember the staggering aftermath. I started reading labels, not really sure what I was looking at but arbitrarily limiting what I would and would not eat based on numbers that I didn’t understand. I started working out alone in my bedroom every night. Most tragically, after a week or two of restricting myself I started finding time alone to eat ‘bad foods’ because I didn’t want to feel judged by those who saw me. Because I lived in a busy household, eating while I was alone meant scarfing down whatever junk I could get my hands on before anyone came around. I would take a fistful of cookies into the bathroom and shove them in my mouth. I would eat dinners slowly so that when I was finished everyone else was already focused on the television and I could sneak seconds which I would eat as fast as I could. I was FOUR! Honestly, I can objectively say I never had a single fat day during my fourth year on this planet. I’ve seen plenty of pictures and I was a tiny little thing, slimmer than average. It boggles my mind why anyone would tell me I was fat, and why I would take someone calling me fat to heart?
I assume it was because I heard the adults agonizing over food choices and whatever the diet fad was in the mid 80s. We had copies of Jane Fonda’s workouts, Richard Simmons, too. I remember being a fan of Sweatin’ to the Oldies, in particular. I saw my older siblings and cousins get teased by other family members because of their bodies, and knew it was inevitable that I would be too. I already understood the stereo types of fat kids- that they were dumb bullies who probably smelled bad. It’s regularly said that kids pick up everything. Less commonly heard is that kids apply what they pick up to how they view themselves.
So here I am, twenty years later, still doing the same things I did as a child. You’d think as a woman I have the logic and reason to know better and act differently. And maybe I would if I still didn’t feel that I’ll be judged and stereotyped. What’s worse is that it wouldn’t be judgment from family who loved me, though they sometimes had a terrible way of showing it. This time, it’s by the masses. When I compare me as an individual to the population of the world, I still feel like a tiny four year old, with too much alone time and the means to buy as many fistfuls of cookies as I can keep down. I don't feel like I'm back at square one, I feel like I never moved passed it.
The first time I was told I was fat was when I was four years old. It’s funny, I don’t even remember who it was that told me I was fat. I just remember the staggering aftermath. I started reading labels, not really sure what I was looking at but arbitrarily limiting what I would and would not eat based on numbers that I didn’t understand. I started working out alone in my bedroom every night. Most tragically, after a week or two of restricting myself I started finding time alone to eat ‘bad foods’ because I didn’t want to feel judged by those who saw me. Because I lived in a busy household, eating while I was alone meant scarfing down whatever junk I could get my hands on before anyone came around. I would take a fistful of cookies into the bathroom and shove them in my mouth. I would eat dinners slowly so that when I was finished everyone else was already focused on the television and I could sneak seconds which I would eat as fast as I could. I was FOUR! Honestly, I can objectively say I never had a single fat day during my fourth year on this planet. I’ve seen plenty of pictures and I was a tiny little thing, slimmer than average. It boggles my mind why anyone would tell me I was fat, and why I would take someone calling me fat to heart?
I assume it was because I heard the adults agonizing over food choices and whatever the diet fad was in the mid 80s. We had copies of Jane Fonda’s workouts, Richard Simmons, too. I remember being a fan of Sweatin’ to the Oldies, in particular. I saw my older siblings and cousins get teased by other family members because of their bodies, and knew it was inevitable that I would be too. I already understood the stereo types of fat kids- that they were dumb bullies who probably smelled bad. It’s regularly said that kids pick up everything. Less commonly heard is that kids apply what they pick up to how they view themselves.
So here I am, twenty years later, still doing the same things I did as a child. You’d think as a woman I have the logic and reason to know better and act differently. And maybe I would if I still didn’t feel that I’ll be judged and stereotyped. What’s worse is that it wouldn’t be judgment from family who loved me, though they sometimes had a terrible way of showing it. This time, it’s by the masses. When I compare me as an individual to the population of the world, I still feel like a tiny four year old, with too much alone time and the means to buy as many fistfuls of cookies as I can keep down. I don't feel like I'm back at square one, I feel like I never moved passed it.
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