My Last Thin Mint

I've eaten my last Thin Mint.  I managed to consume an entire box in TWO DAYS.  I have to admit I have a problem.  I don't seem to have this problem with other cookies, or chocolate, or any other sweet treat - with the possible exception of donuts, which is why I've learned to RARELY buy donuts.  Yeah, a person really shouldn't eat an entire box of Girl Scout Cookies by themselves in two days.  So I am gonna have to pull the string and get off the Girl Scout Cookie bus.  I apparently can't have just one.  Or two, or seven. 

I admire the organization and will probably continue to purchase cookies for my husband.  (Especially after hearing about the latest flap involving some far-right state senator from Indiana denouncing the Girls Scouts - seriously!?)  Hubby likes the Trefoils, which could sit on my kitchen counter tops for weeks and I'd eat like three.  Shortbread, meh.  Samoas are pretty good, and Tagalongs are alright, although they leave a slightly slimy film on the tongue.  But Thin Mints are apparently laced with magic fairy keep-you-fat dust.  And I'm sick of my pants fitting too tightly.  So I'm out.  (I'll miss you!)

Resolve

So I totally caved.  On Christmas Day I was down at my in-laws' house, awaiting lunch.  I looked down at a bowl of chocolate candy, picked up a mini Mr. Goodbar, and ate it, with little pause.  A split second after it hit my tongue, I thought, "Oh well, guess that's it for my month-long ban on candy!"  Just like that.  I've started going off the deep end again with the sugar, so I'm gonna have to be careful.  I'm not going to buy junk and keep it in the house anymore.  If it's not there, I won't eat it.

On a more positive note, I've been doing well with my one New Year's Resolution so far: to eat at a minimum one fruit and two vegetables or two fruits and one vegetable per day.  Before the baby I was pretty good about eating healthy foods, but since I've been time and sleep-deprived, I've eaten more carbs and less fresh food.  So far, so good.  I figure a relatively easy resolution like that is one I can manage to keep.

I'm really trying hard these days to give myself some slack.  No one expects perfection of me, so why do I expect it of myself?  I fall prey to comparing myself and my mothering/wifely skills to others.  It's silly when I stop to think about it.  If my floor is dirty, if the laundry's unwashed, if the Christmas lights are still up outside, BIG DEAL.  I'd rather spend time playing on the floor with my son, and sleeping, and reading books, and having a real conversation with my husband.  Those are the things that matter to my heart.  I've got to lighten up on the whole "to-do list" rattling around in my brain all the time.  I work a full-time job, I have a six-month old, I have a LIFE.  And it's going to be messy.  I've just got to accept it.

Better Not Pout

I keep opening the fridge and the pantry, scanning the shelves, expecting what I want to magically appear.  What do I want?  Something sweet, but it's not there.  I still haven't had candy - it's Christmas Eve, and I've made it this far, so there's no stopping now.  Except that i don't really think I've curbed my sweet tooth much.  I've been eating pumpkin bread, cupcakes, frosting, scones, Pop Tarts like there's no tomorrow.  So what the hell is the point of cutting out chocolate, except to make myself crazy? 

You know that time in the morning when you resolve that THIS is the day you make changes, the first day of the rest of your brand-new healthy life?  I've had quite a few of those lately.  I see Oprah and Dr. Oz smiling from the bright yellow cover of her January issue, and i so badly want to believe that they can tell me how to remake my habits, cleanse myself of my dietary sins. 

Maybe they can.  Maybe they can't.  Maybe it doesn't matter what they advise, because what's really eating at me isn't found in a box or a grocery cart or a tree or a plot of soil.  It's all in my head, an endless loop of anxiety and perfectionism and melancholy, an inability to LET GO and just breathe.  It's Christmas Eve, for Frosty's sake!  I'm putting this out there, into the universe, hoping that I can give myself a break and just enjoy the next few days.  There's a lot of pressure to be "in the Christmas Spirit," and if you're just not quite feeling it, you feel like there's something wrong with you.  I am trying to keep Christmas in my own way, even if I haven't quite figured out how yet.

Day Three

I didn't have any candy on Monday, or Tuesday, despite it not being December yet.  So I guess I'm already starting my sugar-less (not sugarless) sojourn.  There's a square of Ghiradelli Dark Chocolate in my lunch bag.  It's been there for 3 days and I'm going to have to either throw it away or give it to my mother tonight when I get home (she takes care of Baby one afternoon a week.)  All the magazines extol the virtues of dark chocolate in moderation, and really it is my favorite form of candy, but if I want to do this right I'm going to have to include it on the banned list - for now.  (Sniff.)

Already I feel lighter.  You know how you read or hear about people saying that they've given up things to God, because they just can't do anything about it anymore, so they just release it to a higher power?  I sort of feel like that.  I'm not sure God really cares all that much about my post-baby pudge or my emotional eating.  Goodness, there are so many other pressing things to deal with.  But I do feel like I've let go of something that had been weighing me down, and whomever received it, more power to you. 

There's absolutely no reason on Earth that I can't do this.  Taking this seemingly small step towards better physical and emotional health and balance could be just the beginning, the beginning of a lifetime of healthier habits and inner peace.  Inner peace operating on a sliding scale, that is - I am what I am, as Popeye says.

I Want Candy!

In the spirit of the blog's title, it's about time I actually did something instead of whining about it.  Lately I've been sucking up candy like a vacuum cleaner, ever since I had my baby and was freed from the tyranny of my low-carb gestational diabetes diet.  Well, that was almost 5 months ago.  It's time to get serious about eating a healthier diet.  If not for me, then for my baby, since I'm still breastfeeding and hope to for another 7 months at least.

I am a sugar addict.  I seriously believe that sugar is an addiction.  The consequences might not be as deadly as with drugs or alcohol, but then again, look at the skyrocketing diabetes and obesity rates in our country.  I wish I could be one of those people who can enjoy things "in moderation."  I don't think I am that kind of person, sadly.  If I eat one cookie, I want to eat 4 more.  If I eat one piece of chocolate, I want to eat 3 or 6 or 8 more.  Last night I stood in my kitchen and ate 7 Hershey kisses with almonds, one after another, quickly, almost not even tasting them.  And this was after a mini Snickers bar too.  I looked at the gold foil pile in the trash can and said to myself, "I'm done with this." 

I am done with abusing sweets.  Or at least I want to be done.  So starting December 1st, I'm abstaining from eating candy for one month.  I thought I'd start out with candy, see how that goes, and go from there.  I figure I can do this, even in the month of December, when everyone and their mother are literally throwing candy in your face.  What do I mean by the term candy?  Well, specifically, any processed goody such as Kit Kat, Kisses, Reese's Cups, Nestle Crunch, etc.  Also, I'd better not eat anyone's homemade candy goodies either, which will be tricky as we get closer to Christmas.  (Our library patrons are always so generous and show us their appreciation with food this time of year!)  Surely I can channel my energy and my emotions into something more... satisfying?  Stay tuned. 

Our Buddy Butterbean

Today we said goodbye to a dear member of our family. Our cat Gus, better known as Butterbean or Bean, left us today. I had to take him to the vet to get put to sleep. I put on my big girl britches and went with my aunt to the vet, and it's amazing how fast the process went. He had kidney disease which had progressed of late into kidney failure. We knew it was only a matter of time. I just didn't know how fast he'd go downhill - in two days he went from slow but okay to not eating or drinking, bony and pitiful. The vet told us we made the right call at the right time, not too soon and not too late to make him suffer. I am so grateful he told us that. I can hang onto that at least, knowing Gus isn't suffering and didn't suffer at the end. His daddy told him goodbye this morning, since he had to work a double shift and couldn't get out of it at short notice. It was wrenching watching Eric cry - he doesn't cry often and I know he loved Gus very, very much. They were special buddies.

Gus loved to be scratched on his head and the side of his face. He'd get up on the table and Eric would sit there and scratch and scratch, and Gus would give him a friendly headbutt, and then after a few minutes, he'd flop onto the table in happiness. All he wanted (besides cheese or lunch meat whenever we had either of those!) was to be loved on. Yet he was never what you'd call a "lap cat." He was fairly independent.

He came to me as a stray while I was house sitting for a few months at a place in Lindbergh Forest on South Knoxville. This was in 2000. I took him with me when I left and have loved him ever since. It's hard to believe he's gone. That we now have only one cat. I threw away his food bowl when I got home. The house seems strangely empty now, even with another cat and a five week old baby.

I'm going to plant a rosebush out there in the backyard where he's resting. I will tell James about the prince of a cat named Gus that shared his home with him for 5 weeks and 4 days. He was a very, very good cat. We love you, buddy.

Another Me

I started cleaning out the office, which will hereby be known as the baby room. It looks like a bomb went off in there now, but I have a vision of soothing, semi-organized loveliness to come. I found two boxes of letters, cards, and mementos from college. Last night I sat on the couch and started going through one, only making it half-way before I felt soaked in too much nostalgia.

Letters are fantastic. No one writes them anymore. But this is not that blog entry, the one where I lament the death of paper and pen. This is the one where I ponder who the hell that person was that received all those letters. Certainly she was lucky, to be loved by so many interesting people, eager to share their summers and Christmas breaks and semesters abroad with her.

As my stack of things to toss out grew, so did my discomfort level. A potent mix of feelings swirled within - embarrassment, yearning, gratitude, sadness. I realized just how different I am now, how much I am not that 20-year-old anymore. Old regrets rose to the surface with the hindsight of the past 14 years. I should have studied in London, I should have applied myself more to my schoolwork, I should have spent a summer at an internship away. Simultaneously I took heart in the knowledge that these great people loved me, confided in me, missed me. I was surely doing something right in my life at that time to be surrounded by a circle of true friendship and camaraderie.


My husband always tells me I'm too hard on myself, and I know he's right. I had a wonderful college experience, full of interesting classes, amazing relationships, silliness, crushes, road trips, stupid arguments, parties, dancing... all the things that make going away from home for four years worthwhile and edifying. Hubby says, "You're just a late bloomer," and he's right again. Self-confidence and a willingness to try new things came relatively later in life to me, and sometimes that's just how it goes. Better late than never, I say. Still, reading all those letters dredged up old self-doubt.

With a box and a half to go through, part of me wants to just chuck it all! Sometimes it's better to let your old life rest, let your former self stay mostly forgotten.

Mo' Money, Mo' Problems?

I've been reading Ariel Gore's newest book, Bluebird: Women and the new Psychology of Happiness. (Never read her before - she's fantastic! Where have I been?) It's about the positive psychology movement, whether or not it's a bunch of junk and how it can be applied to women's lives. What I like most about the book are the personal journal entries and stories from women who Gore interviewed as subjects. They are thought-provoking and illuminating.


There's a short chapter on money - whether women tend to devalue the role money plays in our lives and happiness. A certain story piqued my interest. A friend of Gore's went to college and noticed that "the kids from upper-class backgrounds seemed to have a wholly different attitude toward money from the kids who grew up poor... what might she learn from her new, entitled friends?"


She discovered that "people who grew up with money welcome money into their lives. People who grew up poor tend to have a lot of negative associations with money - they associate money with money problems."


Whoa. Seems like a simple enough concept. But it hit me right in the gut when I read it.


I have a real chip on my shoulder when it comes to money, and I always have. We didn't have much when I was growing up - I never went to bed hungry or anything, but money was always tight. There were fights about money all the time. After the divorce, my mom and I were on food stamps for a short while. She didn't really know how to handle money and I learned some bad spending habits that took me many years to correct. Despite our constant money struggles, my parents chose to send me to private schools for my entire education. I don't really know how that happened and don't really see the practicality of that choice now, but what's done is done.


I went into a middle school and high school resembling "Beverly Hills 90210," or at least the East Tennessee version. I grew to resent the kids who had money to buy whatever their hearts desired. Kids who crashed their luxury cars, only to have their parents buy them new ones. Kids who went on skiing vacations and didn't have t0 shop for their school uniforms at the annual consignment sale. I had an amazing group of high school friends who never, ever made me feel lass than because of my money situation. But I always knew that I was pretty much the poorest kid in the whole freaking school.


So when I read that section from Bluebird I felt in viscerally. I don't know many people who have worse associations with money than I do. Money makes me nervous, anxious, jealous, disgusted, angry. And since the days of my bad spending habits I've done a 180 degree turn and practically hate to spend money now. I haven't bought a new winter coat in nine years because spending more than $50.00 on one item makes me feel almost ill. Yeah, I've got issues.


In Bluebird, Ariel Gore's friend tried to consciously change her relationship with money by saying all these mantras like, "I am a money magnet. Money flows naturally and easily into my life." She started teaching all of their starving artist friends her theory of "money magnetism." I told Eric about this and he said it sounded like "all that Secret bullshit." I responded, "Well, I buy into that stuff to a certain extent." And I do. It doesn't explain away all of the iniquities and hardship in the world. Sometimes bad stuff just happens. But - there IS some truth to how your view of the world determines your life path. If you play the victim your whole life, things feel out of your control, unlucky things get you down even more, and you can get stuck in a loop of hopelessness and negative emotions. I've seen it happen enough in my own family to believe it.



If I apply this money theory to my life, how does that affect me? I've hated and desired money equally. It's been a temptress, an annoyance, a hassle. But if I look at it objectively, it's also been an ally, a savior, a friend. Me digging myself out of debt has led to a good credit score, which led to a home loan, which led to me and my husband living in our cute little house in the neighborhood we adore. A surprise family inheritance allowed my mother to make some much needed repairs to her home and get herself mostly out of debt. No one in my family, or my husband's, is rich, but we all basically have what we need, which is a blessing.



Maybe I need to start coming up with some money mantras of my own. It couldn't hurt, right? It just might lead to some healing, some letting go of weighty, illogical feelings that could be holding me back. And come next winter, it might also lead to a brand-new coat!