Success Stories

Devin just got a job rejection yesterday and was feeling appropriately despondent and frustrated. I can totally relate, not only because I spent over two years getting that kind of rejection before finding full time work, but also because I understand how it feels when something you want so badly seems so out of reach. In vain, I asked him to reflect on what other measures of success he sees in his life, what other objective truths he can identify that will show his job-searching progress, and to figure out what he does and doesn't control. He was just too angry and upset -- maybe that will all work later. So often in my weight management efforts I get the data off of the 'information machine' and feel totally judged. I mean, you'd think after all of these years I'd have a more zen-like approach and would be able to tap into my sense of objectivity. You'd probably also think that after all of this time being a 'maintainer' that I could just shift the whole weight/food/eating thing into the background and coast along on automatic. Ah, wishful thinking. This morning I decided to get a 'sneak preview' (I generally weigh officially on Saturdays) and the data I received was not pretty. My first and immediate thought was 'I'm going to skip my weigh in tomorrow -- I can't face seeing that number written down in my book!' It just feels so damning! Of course, the reason the number is up is that I've been feeling unsettled, I've been overtired, and I've spent several evenings this week overeating. I need to remind myself that weight increases are not due to moral weakness, stupidity, or lack of personal worth. Its that old chestnut about 'feedback, not failure.' My only recourse is to go back to the advice I was trying to give Devin. How can I measure my weight management success in other terms? What is actually within my control to accomplish this week? What's the positive take-away from this situation? One things for sure, none of those questions were answered when, feeling upset, I bought that scone at Peets this morning.

Factory Made Goodness

There was an almost poetic article in today's San Francisco Chronicle about a woman who got the chance to return to her hometown in China and spend six months exploring and writing about food. Of course, the first thing I noticed was that she is so slender and healthy looking! But as I was reading, it gave me pause to think about the foods of my youth and my own radically different experience. In her travels, she found succulent, beautiful foods that were 'explosions' of taste and aroma. Were I to travel back to my childhood, I'd probably just find candy wrappers and hot dog buns. For much of my childhood, my family lived in a bland, boring, ready-built suburb of large, undistinguished ticky tacky houses in a cul-de-sac neighborhood with no sidewalks, parks or recreation of any kind. Unusual for our circle, my Mother worked outside the home (as a politician, and so had very long hours). Not so unusual, unfortunately, was that my Father never lifted a finger to help her out, despite the fact that there were five of us kids, and a lot of household chores. As a result, my Mother was a fanatical advocate of convenience foods, as it was the only way she could feed seven mouths, three times a day. Among our regular meals were TV dinners, ready-made macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, and (one of my favorites) a three-ingredient supper consisting of a pound of fried hamburger meat, on top of a pile of instant rice, covered with a can of Campbell's tomato soup. For lunch, I used to bring baloney sandwiches which I made myself (heavy on the ketchup and mayo), along with an apple that (WINCE!) I threw out every single day! Although we had a comfortable middle-class life, there were many things that our food life lacked, and so I grew up fairly innocent of what healthy food was like. For instance, I was astonished when I went away to college and one of my roommates proposed MAKING mashed potatoes. From actual, whole potatoes. Honestly, I thought they came from a box! I discovered that all kinds of foods could actually be made in the home (applesauce and orange juice, for example) that tasted just fine. Since my parents were both gone most of the time, when I got home from school I would always snack on chips (Fritos were my favorite) and soda, frequently supplementing this with ice cream, and any of the candy that I bought with my lunch money. When I went to friends' houses, they always seemed to have it even better (oh how I envied my best friend Greg, whose mother supplied him with endless boxes of pop-tarts!). I think this was just how suburbia worked in the Brady Bunch era (except no one I knew had a maid). Despite this nutritional wasteland, I don't blame my Mother. She had burdens and concerns way beyond anything I've ever had to deal with, and she entered married life singularly unprepared by her own upper-class background, never having had to cook for herself, let alone a huge mob of hungry kids. She coped by taking advantage of every tool available to her, and was adept at throwing things together at lightning speed so that my Father (who stood around and complained) wouldn't have to 'go hungry.' And clearly my Mother wasn't alone. A few years ago, when I was last in my hometown, I went to the local "Stop & Shop" to buy some healthy food for my visit. I was speechless when I found a delightful fruit platter of strawberries, blueberries and melon, that had a special cut-out section for the big TUB of cream cheese that went with it. (Hmmm good. Nothing like cream cheese on my .... blueberries?) So it is that I thank my lucky stars that I live in California, in San Francisco, in the 21st century. I've got organic fruits and veggies everywhere, and a massive variety of Asian and other ethnic foods that are available both in restaurants AND as ingredients at the Safeway. Like my Mother, I have two jobs and no time, but unlike her, I have amazing salad bars, delightful produce, and a keen appreciation of what home-made really means. (And just what exactly IS bologna, anyway? Yuck!)

Clothes Make the Man?

When I was dealing with my highest weight ever, I just KNEW that my girth had nothing to do with my eating. 'It must be some mysterious undiagnosed ailment' I used to tell myself. Any time I had the chance I'd look things up in reference books or on the 'net, just to see what bizarre and unusual things I could find. Of course, as I found out once I began counting calories and tracking my food, the only ailment that I had suffered from was DENIAL. When I look back at photos from my late 20s and early 30s, I'm always a little chagrinned to see what else denial had led me to do. I always had one scheme or another to show my physique off to its best advantage, since I was convinced that I wasn't 'really' overweight. If only I parted my hair this way, or wore certain kinds of shirts, my 'true' profile would be revealed. I was always disappointed, too, that blonde highlights, or a pierced ear, never quite seemed to work. Patterned pants, or colorful shoes, there was always one thing or another that I was trying. (Anything other than eat less, which I was just so certain wasn't the issue!). When I got to my healthy weight goal, and began to replace my wardrobe, a couple of things happened. First of all, I realized that when my body shape was more similar to the body shapes that off-the-rack clothes were developed for, pretty much anything 'made me look thin.' Secondly, my significant other seized the day, finally interjecting his sartorial edits into my choices as I built up my wardrobe, winnowing out anything that he felt was too pedestrian or over the top, and steering me towards clothes that were both more classic and more stylish. So for the most part, I'm now pretty happy with whatever I pull out of the closet on a given day. I'm not relying on new haircuts or striped shirts or funky ties -- as long as I maintain my weight, things seem to look pretty good. On the other hand, one thing that struck me today as I was washing my hands, was that I'm still not exactly an off-the-rack kind of guy. The reason this hit me was that I always have trouble keeping the cuffs of my shirts clean. For my whole adult life I assumed it was because I was sloppy, or that I just needed to find a better cut of fabric. But the fact is that even though my proportions are all pretty much in line, at 5'6, I'm still significantly shorter than most men. So even now that I can buy 'small' shirts, the sleeves are nevertheless still too long. (The same has always been true with trousers, but I always get them tailored). I don't have much trouble fitting at the chest and shoulders, and short-sleeved shirts look great. But for work days and dressy occasions, I'm still constantly having to push up the sleeves. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing to complain about. Its nice to have a 'problem' that isn't about food choices, and which doesn't require introspection, journalling and angst. But today I've been daydreaming about something I never in my wildest dreams thought I would do ... namely, having a custom-fit shirt made. The difference with this fantasy (I think) is that its not about whether it will make me look slender. Its about being honest with the limitations of my height. After all, being about four inches shorter than the average guy isn't such a big deal. Its just my budget that I'm worried about. Talk about denial!

Poo Poo Platter

This weekend Devin and I went to a fundraiser for his tennis group. It was a well-heeled bunch, and the event consisted of booze, food and speeches (in that order). I had already worked out and had a snack, so I talked myself out of having a pre-emptive bite ahead of time. When we arrived (late) we had a standing-room spot about as far from the buffet table as you could get, which was just fine with me. I don' t know about you, but for me, hungry or not, the sight of food is just too alluring to resist. After about the third speech, Devin whispered, 'I'm going to get something to eat' and I wished him well. He came back with a plate, piled high with these fancy skinny baguette sandwiches, meat, cheese, and a bunch of crackers. Then, pointing to the side of his dish he said 'Look what I got you.' CELERY STICKS. Okay, now I don't know how celery qualifies as a 'food' but in my book, its akin to cardboard, shoe leather and crabgrass (i.e. something that would appeal to a goat, but not to me). And plain, unadorned, celery? You might as well just gnaw on a pencil. So, even though I still wasn't hungry, I forced myself to walk over to the buffet and see if I could find something a little more palatable. There was just something unacceptable about standing around with a plate full of .... celery. Fortunately, I found a couple of great alternatives; jicama, sliced yellow peppers, mini zucchini, and pickles. Since I wasn't looking for a meal, these gave me color, crunch and taste, and allowed me to carry around a plate with dignity. I even went back a second time (although just for more pickles!). Then the desserts came out and I knew I was on my own. Devin doesn't care for sweets, and since it was a tennis event, it was catered for people with 'athletic' appetites (i.e. cookies, brownies, cheeses, pastries, etc.). But like a moth to a flame, I sometimes flap my wings inexorably towards those party platters, no matter what my good intentions might be. Fortunately, I had two strategies, and put them BOTH to good use. First of all, I looked for anything that was both appealing and healthy -- I got some apple slices, a couple of strawberries, and then brazenly scooped almost the ENTIRE garnish of raspberries onto my plate. That was tricky as they had been interspersed amongst the brownies! And my second strategy? As I stood in the line, I watched people picking up the cookies and sweet with their hands and visualized to myself that no one quite knows where all of these hands have been (its a party, after all)! Inevitably people sort through to get the best one, and there's a fair amount of touching and jostling. Just keeping that 'ick factor' in mind was enough to turn me off. (Of course, I used my own --just washed-- hands to pick up the berries). In the end, I felt quite pleased. I stayed as far from the buffet table as I could, I engaged in conversation rather than focusing on the food, and when I did end up filling my plate, I was able to do so with tasty, colorful, and healthy alternatives. Celery sticks. Indeed.

Believe You Me

My earliest clothes-shopping memories were of visiting a small department store in my hometown in New England and being directed to the 'husky' section. This was probably when I was 8 or 9 years old, and was the beginning of my consciousness of being overweight. Of course, I'd always been 'larger' than my older brothers, which was notable because it obviated the possibility of hand-me-downs. Whereas they played sports, rode bikes, and joined the track team -- I read books, liked to cook, and loathed gym class. And although my family never made a big deal out of it, I do remember that I was excited to report to them that I had lost weight while I was at summer camp after the sixth grade. Since my parents were always going on one kind of diet or another, I knew they would be happy. As a teenager, being overweight wasn't the worst of my problems, but it was always there, a part of what defined me. It was also during that time, when I first began making money on my own, that I suddenly had access to the wider world of junk food. I would always take my money from cutting the lawn or other jobs and ride my bike to the drug store and spend it on candy, hamburgers, and shrink-wrapped treats like twinkies, ding-dongs or ho-hos. My first serious attempt to lose weight came in college (a starvation diet, fueled by anxiety and depression). And that also marked the first time I would actually gain more weight back than I lost in the first place. As a young adult in my 20s and trying to forge my own identity, I swung back and forth on the weight pendulum in a sort of boom-bust cycle. Needless to say, by the time I hit my highest weight ever in 2001, I had a lifetime of ideas and beliefs about myself and my body. Although I knew I had endurance and strength, I also felt acutely the sense of being the kind of person who couldn't buy pants off the rack. Having accumulated a record of losing and gaining weight so often, I had no sense of what my 'right' body size was. The point of this ramble is that when I hit my goal weight in 2002 after (at long last) losing weight in a healthy, sustainable manner, an incredible thing happened. For the first time ever, at the age of 40, I had a sense of what my body was 'meant' to look like and feel like. Its a little hard to explain, but when I got to my healthy weight in a healthy manner, it became clear to me almost immediately that this was a 'natural' state for me to be in. Which is to say, thin. Not fat, not overweight, not husky, not heavy-set, not big-boned. Thin. In my thin body, clothes felt right, my skin felt right, and I had a sense of my physical space being appropriate for my height. Now as amazing as this revelation is/was, it didn't solve all of my life's problems, it didn't cure me from depression and it most definitely didn't eliminate my ability to overeat and gain weight. It just gave me a new insight into my space in the physical universe, and I liked it. From having worked with hundreds and hundreds of people on weight management over the past four years, I know that every person has the potential to find his or her appropriate weight at a different level. I'm often most proud of the people who achieve a certain degree of weight loss and then simply maintain that, irrespective of where they are on the BMI. Knowing that you have found a weight that looks and feels right seems to be the main key. So it was yesterday that I was really annoyed by two people separately commenting that I looked like I have "lost too much weight" and am "getting too skinny." Because the objective fact is that I have not lost any weight at all (in fact my 'official' weigh-in says I'm up 2.8 pounds for the month). And the subjective fact is this: I know and understand what the right size is for me. I'm 45, I'm getting a lot of wrinkles, my hair is greying, and I look a little more 'tired' than I used to. It doesn't really matter that I still work hard at maintenance, struggle with the occasional weight re-gain, and sometimes wake up at 2 a.m. thinking about a Starbucks maple oat scone. Being thin is just a part of who I am. Believe you me.