Honesty is the Best Policy

yikes.

This is me, being brutally honest (with the compulsory aloof face and messy hair required of all "before" pics.) The clothes are ill-fitting, but there was a time that they fit me, rather loosely I might add. So, I decided to wear them in hopes to progressively watch them loosen up bit by bit.

A friend from college is doing a really interesting experiment. He is super fit and over the last six months has gone about putting on 70 pounds to gain greater empathy with those he works with as a personal trainer. And now, he will take the next six months to carve it off. It is an interesting idea.

I wish I could say that the last year of my life has been a similar process. But, mostly it has just been a cycle grounded basically in fear and pride. Last summer I was looking pretty good--of course I didn't think so at the time, but I look back at those pictures and realize how amazing I looked, better than ever before. But, at the time all I wanted was more weight off. How silly. But, to be honest, I got scared. Being overweight was a part of who I was, and not being that started to scare me a bit. What on earth would I do with myself if I wasn't trying to lose weight?

Plus, I started to get a bit more attention. I noticed guys checking me out at the gym and that made me really nervous. The self-sabotage began. It was slow and gradual, and I kept running so the weight wasn't coming on quickly, but I had definitely shifted gears.

And then I moved in with my mom. And I was surrounded by food, stress, and strain. My husband was 300 miles away and our financial future was completely uncertain. I ate and ate and ate. And still I exercised, so it kept total health abandonment at bay.

And then I got a job. And gym time went out the window. And I had access to a vending machine. And I resented everything about our situation.

Now I weigh 200 pounds, a number I haven't seen since I was pregnant with Isaac. For the first time since we've been married, my wedding dress would probably not fit right now.

And still I think it will somehow just change. I think that I can eat what I want and if I just start going to the gym it will just work. I mean, I am someone who lost sixty pounds for heavens sakes. . I've never progressively gained more and more weight before. Surely, this isn't really me? Surely I can still fit into my jeans.. . . right? So wrong.

If I don't make some key changes, I am afraid I'll head down a dangerous road taking me to a place physically that I have worked very hard to never go. I've run a marathon, lost baby weight plus some between each pregnancy, and learned to make homemade granola and love beans and rice. I KNOW how to be healthy! I've just forgotten how to want it.

A real obstacle here is old fashioned honesty. I just haven't been honest with myself. I've bought two packs of twix bars and somehow convinced myself that they won't really add up or make me gain weight. Do I think they go out the back of my neck after I swallow? They don't.

So, I've decided to take on my own "fat to fit" challenge. Come along if you want. I plan to be very honest in this space.

I want to lose 45 pounds. It sounds like sooooo much, but one pound at a time and change will come. This will require large amounts of patience and itty bitty amounts of chocolate. But, it isn't just about the weight. I've weighed 160 before. I hope to reach 155, but it isnt' really the number. Like I said, I've weighed close to that before and I wasn't too happy about it. I still saw flabby arms and lumpy thighs. I saw the girls in Runner's World and they were everything I wasn't. I have got to get over that, and this is a place I plan to document my journey towards losing that weight too. That weight that drags my head down to look at my legs with a grimace instead of gratitude. The weight that worries my husband deserves better, that my children will grow to be like me, or that I am not worth anything unless I am thin and pretty. More than the pounds--that weight has got to come off.

I know I will be a better servant in the Lord's kingdom if I am stronger, leaner, and more confident. I know I will love others more if I love myself first. Not in a selfish self-serving way, but in a way that strips me of fear and lets me love without pride, expectation, or concern that my love isn't good enough because I'm not good enough.

As long as I'm being honest, I'll pass this on as well. I've felt often in many ways that my life will be happier and purer if I abandon white sugar and flour and stop eating after 8pm. That might sound completely crazy, but I've felt it too often to rationalize it away. This isn't a universal truth, but I do believe it is my truth. And it is a truth that I have been running from for quite a while. And I believe that the guilt of not accepting this prompting has driven me to food in terrible ways. This will not be easy. I love so many things sugary. But, I feel myself change when I eat it. I feel guilt and shame and suddenly all I can think about is the next time I can eat. . .anything.

I worry that anyone reading this (if you haven't fallen asleep yet) might lose a lot of respect for me with these confessions. I am sorry. I think I've been awfully good at portraying someone with vast amounts of willpower. And at times I have been that person. But, I'm not sure that it ever came from love or light, but just an overwhelming desire for approval.

But, I will try. I will try tonight to ignore the Halloween candy. I will pray for help. I will walk away, take a drink of water, and ask the Lord to give me strength to make these changes that will bless me in so many ways. And along the way I will lose weight. But more importantly, I hope I will lose fear. I will gain muscle, but I really hope I gain light.

A Body of Light.

It's not you, it's me.

Today I did something I've never done before.

Don't worry no laws or commandments were broken.

I walked out halfway through an aerobics class. It wasn't because I was injured, tired, or lazy. I just didn't like it. Let's make this clear: I like exercise. I like sweating and moving and pushing myself. I just don't like doing it in a room with a bunch of other people. And as I was grapevining around the room I suddenly realized that there was no reason for me to do this. So I left. I took my water bottle and went to the treadmill. And boy did I have a good run. Because that was exactly what I wanted to do.

When I was in high school, I "played" volleyball. By playing I mean I put on knee pads and served really well, and of course was an 5'11" intimidation force at the net. Until they got a look at my 2 inch vertical. Anyway, I hated it. I hated the coach. I didn't like the drills. Team sports and I don't do well because even if I am nowhere near the ball, I am almost certain that everything is my fault. I am too much of an internalizer to handle team competition. We were in a playoff game, and if we won we would head to the Regionals. Everyone was cheering, and hoping. Me? I was on the sidelines praying we would lose, because that would mean the season was over. Suddenly I thought, "Why am I doing this to myself?" We lost. And I turned in my kneepads. And yet still, I have led a fairly productive life.

I too often sign up, join in, and play along because I am certain that I should. I should like something. I should be good at something. But, what if I don't? Aren't there plenty of people who like volleyball? Can't some other section of the female population handle the quilting demands of the world? I certainly hope so. I am all for stretching, striving, and growing. But, if I don't want it, I'll hate myself for failing at it. If I want it, that is a whole different animal. If I want it, failure is a part of the process. If I want it, I'm in it for the long haul. If I want it, then I will make it happen.

So, I'm sorry Body Attack teacher. You are a very nice person who clearly loves group exercise. But, I'm a solo show when it comes to sweating. I have lots to learn and offer, but I'll learn and offer more if I do it my way, rather than the way I think I should. And the same goes for you I'm guessing. So, consider this our permission slip to let go of the "should" projects and embrace the "I've always wanted to. . . " ones. This will be much more fun.

Run With Patience

". . and let us run with patience that race that is set before us."
Hebrews 12:1

It was my first 10K. My first race ever. I had decided to run the Cooper River Bridge race in Charleston, SC because my mom and I love Charleston. Apparently I wasn't the only one. Turns out the Cooper River Bridge Run is one of the biggest 10K races in the country. So I show up in my nifty new socks to a crowd of about 20,000. Playing eager beaver, I jump to the front, right behind the Kenyan track team, ready-ish for what was coming. The gun sounded and we were off. Well everyone else was off, I was mostly being passed. Again. And again. It was depressing. In my struggle to keep up and save face I ended up running almost the entire thing. My nifty new socks were too thick and burned my feet. But, I finished a 10K and felt like the queen of the world. Until the next day when my lower body revolted and should I have been privy to any national secrets, anyone could have broken me by making me sit down and stand up twice within an hour.

I kept racing. And I've gotten faster, stronger, but most importantly---smarter. I've learned about training, tempo runs, ice packs, and carb-loading. And I've learned one very important thing about races: A little thing called pacing. Remember those Kenyans? Right behind them were the "amateurs" aiming for about a 5-6 min. mile pace. My pace at that point was probably about 12 minutes. I cringe to think how annoyed all those seasoned runners must have been, dodging the pudgy beginner who didn't know about lining up according to your pace. I've learned a lot since that first race about pacing. . . and only a little of it is about running.

I don't run with music. I run with my thoughts. I run with my problems. I find my rhythm and then I drum along, sorting through the puzzles in my brain. I don't run to win or even compete. I have never won any type of anything in any race I've ever run. And I doubt I ever will, unless I organize my own race and throw away any registrations in my age group. All my medals say "finisher" and I doubt they'll ever say anything else. But, yet I keep running. Running is my race and when I do it my way, I am better.

I trained for all of one week for my last half marathon. I was a bandit, asked by my friend to run for her because she hadn't trained at all. My running had been spotty at best, not having run more than 3 miles in several months at least. But, my curiosity got me. Could I do it? Had I gotten to a point where I could run a half marathon with a week of training? I decided to go for it. Still, I had learned a thing or two about my body; specifically about the knee part of my body, and I knew that if I pounded out 13 miles with no training, I would shatter my knees and set my running back for weeks. I humbly accepted that a run/walk plan would be the way to do it. I made my plan: 3 minutes run/1 minute walk. . . repeat. I knew that this would be very hard for me to do. I am obstinate about pain--somehow thinking I am a less of a person without it. And I hate, really hate, walking if anyone around me is running. But, I also wanted to do a half marathon and knew that this was the only way I was going to do it. So, I set my timer, took some advil, and ate some pasta.

It was a beautiful race day, and I was eager to see what my body could do. I told myself I could run the first 10 minutes, but after that I would enforce the 3:1 plan. It was hard. I got passed, and I got passed by a pregnant woman. But, cuing my inner monologue, I reminded myself that I had no idea how much she had trained, that the only body I knew was my own, and if I wanted to finish, I had to do it my way. And I did finish. I felt great. My legs felt sore, but strong, and my knees were very very proud of me. I had run my race, my way, at my pace.

If only I could live my life the way I ran that race. I would take it in chunks, recognizing that the only life I know and can control (kind of) is my own. We each have our own race to run, our own children to raise, our own goals to reach. I don't run to perform, but how often do I let my "performance" dictate what I do? I want to be a fun, kind, patient, creative mother. But, do I want that because I believe that will help my children now, or because that is how I want them to remember me? At times I am driven by what others will think of what I do/think/read/eat/say rather than just being. I lose trust in my own pace. I am faster today than I was when I first started running. And I plan on getting faster. But I am not getting faster to beat anyone. I am getting faster because I like getting faster. My pace is my own. If I throw out expectations, real and assumed, trusting that I am a good enough person to do things my own way, even if I never get another compliment, then I think I can find a peaceful rhythm that will get me to the end strong, maybe a little sore, but very very proud.

Happy Running.

Direction Without Disdain

My scale tells me that between yesterday and this morning I somehow lost five pounds. This is very unlikely (especially considering the four cookies I ate yesterday). There is only one explanation: There is a cruel little pixie living in my scale intent on driving me to insanity. What a jerk. Well little pixie, I’m not taking the bait. The day before, when I’d thought I’d gained five pounds, I cut loose and lost it a bit. I let the scale tell me what to do, and I’ve learned that I’ve got to stop doing that. I’ve always had this natural, wholesome, healthy, long-haired, enlightened vision of myself that I want to become. I feel like it is just one layer down inside of me. I have used this vision as one of two things:

Option A: A 2X4 which I use to beat myself into “healthy” submission (temporarily)

Option B: A change too dramatic, too different, and too scary. This keeps me from breaking through to that level of health and wholeness. (an option which made me turn back in self sabotage lately and undo a ten pound weight loss from the Summer)

Are these my only options? I think I’ve finally realized that they are not. I can want that vision and be okay with where I am right now. . and tomorrow. . and in two days when probably not much will have changed. Goals are good. Direction is necessary. The other day on NPR I listened to this wonderful report about scientists who set people to walking in a straight line across a huge field. They blindfolded them and turned them loose. Across the board, everyone’s first 10-20 steps were straight, but then they began to veer in one direction or another. Then they veered some more. And then something incredibly curious happened with all of them: they began walking in circles. Still, the people were convinced they were walking in a straight line. The scientists created countless variables to understand why, but couldn’t figure it out. Their only deduction is that unless there is a point in the distance they are marching for, everyone just winds up going in circles. What a peek into humanity in general. If I don’t have a goal, I will just wander in circles without progression or growth.
I need goals. I need that vision of a more wholesome me. But, I can have that vision without spitting the present out of my mouth in disgust. I can have direction without disdain. So, I’ve gained a few pounds in the last few months. Wah wah wah. Life goes on. The common denominator between the Morgen that is now and the Morgen that will be when I am living a more wholesome life is me. I will still be here. I am the one taking on this challenge. If I try to run away from that to catch this other vision, I won’t be complete, and I certainly won’t be happy.
So today, I let go. Today I don’t think so much about food. Today I eat a few meals and make the best decision I can at each of them. And between those meals. . . I live.

Good Enough

I was probably eleven or twelve when I first cried about being fat. We’d gone to see a doctor and he spoke to mother about my weight, gruffly warning her that I was going to be obese. I don’t remember saying anything on the way home, I only clearly remember sitting on the deck when we got home, sobbing, and asking my mother “why God made me fat.” She didn’t have an answer for me. Probably because there wasn’t one.

I’ve since come to believe that God didn’t make me fat. . . food did. And I also have realized that I wasn’t really all that fat. I wasn’t slight by any means, but the middle school taunts created an image in my head of myself as a bloated, disgusting, ugly, fat thing. I always wanted to be skinny and pretty, I just couldn’t do it. I was the fat girl. Smart, funny, blessed with great skin and a killer set of cheekbones, but fat. Every once in awhile, I’d get to a point of total self disgust and vow to give up this or that, and exercise this much. Guess how well that went. I tried countless plans, ambitiously taking hideous “before” pictures and gearing up to finally be pretty if I could just learn to like running.

And then one day, through a process I couldn’t really outline, I woke up and looked in the mirror and realized that I was just fine, thank you very much. I decided I was pretty darn good looking, hips and all. And it was at that moment that I began to lose weight. I stumbled across a plan that looked promising. I signed up and began. And I succeeded. I lost sixty pounds, having three babies in the process and losing baby weight plus a little more each round. The difference was that it came from a place of acceptance, not disdain.

I began to see food as fuel, instead of entertainment. I wrote down what I ate and became aware of my body and how it felt when it ate what. Then, I began to move. I had always dreamed of running a marathon, but then would remember that I hated running. Most people would see that as an impediment. So, I decided to go out and run until I didn’t like it, and then I’d stop and walk. I put zero pressure on myself. That’s the place of acceptance talking. I wasn’t in a race to become a different person, just a journey to be a better one. So, the first time I went out I probably ran 30 seconds, then walked the rest of the way. Bit by bit, I began to enjoy the running portions more. I ran/walked my first 10K in 2002 and ran my first marathon in 2005. Running has become a sort of meditation for me, a place I never dreamed I’d reach on that first “jog.”

In the years since I began to change my body and my lifestyle, I’ve had several peaks and valleys. I reached the jean size that I had once thought would be the pinnacle of success and beauty. But I rarely feel successful or beautiful; I still somehow always yearn to be a little skinnier, a little stronger, a little more beautiful. When I hit low points, when food suddenly takes over my life again, I feel terrible about myself and wonder how I can get back to that good place again, that place where I relish the good feeling of healthy eating and steady exercise. I have learned though, that those feelings don’t create self worth, they follow it.

I am realizing that the idea that I’ll be good enough when I lose ten more pounds, or finally give up sugar, or can run a 5K in under 29 minutes is going to destroy me. I am good right now. I was good 60 pounds ago. I am happier now and grateful to have lost that weight. I don’t know where my life would be if I hadn’t turned that healthy corner. The fact that I did turn that corner when I did proves I was good then. And I am good now. That I consistently yearn to be better proves that I am good. And I’ll keep getting better.

Zumba Revelations

This last weekend was a gal's weekend with my mom and sisters down at the beach. It was Latin Fest at Virginia Beach and our hips were groovin' to Latin tunes pretty much the whole weekend. On Saturday morning I went on my standard long Saturday jog then hit the waves. It was June and it was beautiful and the water was. . frigid. But, I'd come to the beach and I was going to play in some waves,darnit. Everyone was kind of doing their own thing so I was all on my own, no kids to lather or buckets to lug. So after wading in a bit I took the plunge and quickly hollered out to anyone who would listen, "I AM ALIVE!" Whoo. It was quite a rush. Then I frolicked and dove and swam and really felt the joy of a strong, whole body. Then came Zumba. An hour of shimmying, kicking, hip-popping joy. If I'd been in a dance club as opposed to a big open field full of women in workout clothes, it might have bordered on inappropriate. But, as it was, all I felt was joy and movement and the thrill of having a body that in one morning had ran, swam, and danced. The final zumba instructor that took it home was a pistol. She grooved and shook pretty much everything God gave her and gave us all permission to have a wonderful time doing the same. And the best thing? She was so far from perfect. She jiggled and wobbled, and there wasn't a firm six-pack in sight. But who cared? Noone there, that's for sure. . and apparently she didn't either. It was liberating to watch her and to feel some of my own insecurities shake out as well. Who cares if I don't look like the girl on the cover of Runner's World? I have hips that groove and legs that run and the gumption to jump into very cold water. Who needs a six pack to "glorify God in your body"? Not me. Bring on the music.