Toss the Scale

I hate the scale.

Some people live by the scale number. It defines them each day as they step gingerly on the box. Not me. I feel like a sack of potatoes in the produce department at the grocery store when I’m faced with the scale. Flung onto it, I feel helpless while the nurse, like the shopper, seeks my poundage. I don’t want my poundage. What use is it to me? I feel good. I don’t need a number to define me.

If I had a say, I’d choose a non-relationship with the scale, something akin to the relationship I have with mold. Not interested.

However, the nurse insists each year that I acquaint myself with the contraption that I have, through anthropomorphosis, turned into something with wicked intent.

I was weighed yesterday. This is what set these wheels of opinions about the scale in motion. The scale is not my friend. A friend would whisper a ridiculously low number into my ear because she knows that’s what I’d want to hear. Not the scale. The scale gives a cold number. A fact. A measurement that is somehow a reflection of me in some way. A friend would turn the mirror just so or lie to me. Not the scale. Doesn’t the scale care? I’m tempted to say it is this way because the scale is a just a machine with no feelings, but I’m beginning to think it would look more like Chuckie if it actually came to life.

My bones are dense. My muscles, thick. But I feel great, so what do I care what the scale says? Getting off the scale, I watch as the nurse scribbles my number down. I want to pontificate about "skinny fat people" because it’s true. A lot of people look really good on paper, but they’re muscle to fat ratio stinks. They look great in those True Religion jeans, but are at a higher risk for heart disease than someone with more muscle mass or junk, if you know what I'm sayin'.

I’m tempted to care. I’m tempted to let that number take me prisoner, but I watch it float away without letting it grip me with its limited definition.

What I’m about to preach is controversial, downright medically irresponsible, but it must be said.

Scale numbers don’t matter.

There, I said it and I feel so much better.

Yeah, I get the whole obesity scare and how scale numbers seem to be climbing into dangerous heights. I also get that people use the scale to monitor their weight so that they can keep it in a “healthy range.” I get all that. I live it. I put people on scales regularly and watch their faces glow or fall, depending on that number. I watch people record that number on their dutiful paper and then let that number determine whether or not the rest of their day will be bright or filled with panic and gray.

I witness shoulders slump if the number is off by a pound or two. Even if someone has a “good week,” Chuckie, the scale, might tell them otherwise. They might come into the room feeling great and get off the scale feeling shamed and falling short of who they need to be. The scale has great power; too much power. We wage war with this number or hide it for fear others will judge us. Perhaps we are the ones too harshly judging ourselves by it.

Insidious, that number seeps into our minds and taunts us. It tries to define us in a narrow way. We’ve gone so far as to insert that number into a new measurement called the BMI, which is just as meaningless as the scale number.

None of these measurements capture our essence or preciousness of being. All they do is diminish us to a medical record or a weight chart, which the science of the day has used to take so many people captive. “See this number? It says that you’re mildly obese.”

“But I’m an artist and mother of two.”

“A mildly obese artist and mother of two.”

Today our weight obsession has leaked into new space and we’re all at risk of much more than dying of obesity-related diseases. Our children are at risk of much more than living shorter lives than their parents.

We’re at risk of losing the concept of seeing the body for what it is. A temple. A vehicle. An outer form that carries our inner beings. Our bodies are not the all of us. If we nurture our inner beings, our bodies will follow suit, not the other way around.

I would like to propose a toast. A toast to saying goodbye to limited ways of looking at ourselves. Instead of lifting wine glasses, let us all lift on high our scales. Instead of clinking them together, let us collectively toss them into an abyss.

Who Is She?

Don't ask my why, but I saw the picture of this woman while walking through the Vatican Museum, and now I am obsessed. Her face, among many in the famous painting by Raphael, The School of Athens, I zoomed right in on. Barely focusing on the tour guide's narrative through my whisperer ear piece, I stared into her eyes. Who is she? Why does she captivate me in this way? I snapped a picture of her, forgetting to take in the entire canvas of beauty, and we made our way out of the room. I caught a tidbit about how the "recent movie" had made this "heretic" famous. Her name? Well, with a heavy Italian accent, I could swear the guide said, "Ipstatia" or something like that. Now, after coming home and finding I am still preoccupied with this woman, I have learned her name is Hypatia.

Why do such things grip us unexpectedly?

Who is Hypatia? Who is the historical figure? Better yet, who is the woman modeling for Raphael?

To be continued...

Expect the Unexpected

It’s been two weeks since my mom dropped a happy bomb. “Hey, how ‘bout we take a cruise around the Mediterranean on July 17th?” Staring at a calendar filled with summer activity, I held the phone and went mute. A cruise around the Mediterranean. The words didn’t register. Words alien to my world of dirty laundry and kids’ schedules, I thought again about what she said. A cruise around the Mediterranean.

Still, nothing was getting through.

She kept talking. “You said you wanted to do something like that with me. It’s now or never. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

Time’s hourglass sand appeared in my mind, slipping into a big mound at the bottom with my mother’s name on it. She’s 81, but Fate can take her either way. Half her people died of sudden, massive heart attacks (one while playing cards). The other half could have advanced science if they had enrolled in longevity studies.

I counted the days on the calendar. “But that’s only three weeks from now.”

“Can we do it? I see a great deal here on a trip that takes us from Rome to Sicily to Athens to Ephesus to Crete.”

I paused. “Well, Bea has a field hockey camp and I see dentist appointment for July 19.” I stuttered as I floated between whimsy and responsibility. “Mom, that would be amazing!” I yelled. “But I just can’t wrap around it right now. It’s overwhelming. Can I get back to you?”

“Talk it over with everyone and call me back. If we do this, I gotta book it now.”

Doesn’t the Bible say somewhere, “Ask and you shall receive?”

Well, I did ask for this. About six months ago, I had asked my mother if she would consider taking my children overseas on some kind of educational trip. “Dock it from my inheritance, if I have one,” I said, feeling cheeky. I suggested Israel. She said they were too young. She suggested London/Paris. I thought that’d be great. We talked about this in a way a little girl would talk about wanting to grow up and be Hannah Montana. I never really thought we’d actually do it.

My mom loves to travel. She was in Egypt days before its people decided to oust Mubarak for good. She’ll be cruising along the Panama Canal with her friend, Alice, in October. “Come on, Mom,” I had said. “Would you consider going somewhere with us?”

Now it was happening.

“If it’s meant to be, it will be,” my mom said. “Don’t sweat it. Talk it over with your family and call me back.”

“If it’s meant to be, it will be.” Such a cliché, but so true. What if we all lived our lives that way? What if we let go and realized that we weren’t really in the driver’s seat, but Someone Else was? What if we really accepted that? What if, rather than live by the world of checking off our to-do lists, we adopted a motto I learned way back when from the Papua New Guinea culture – “Expect the unexpected”?

What if we truly lived like that?

Life does take strange turns. Mine is steering me onto a flight to Rome next week with my mom and three girls (Sadly, Tim has to work. ☹).

I certainly didn’t expect this unexpected twist.

Perhaps I should have.

It's Time to Break Up With That Cookie

You pine for it, thinking all the time about how good it is and planning your next date. You even have a nice spot where you can go to enjoy your time together. Perhaps you share tea and kind words. Oh, how I love you. You mean so much to me. You taste so good and I look forward to holding you every night. You bring me such pleasure. Tomorrow, I will think of holding you again. You give me something no one else can. My thoughts race with what you give me.

Then a voice of reason steps in. You realize that cookies or that 4th glass of wine or that bag of potato chips might not be healthy for you. Suddenly, you realize you’re in a bad relationship. But a bad relationship is better than no relationship, right?

Wrong.

Think about what that food or drink gives you. Sure, you get that brain rush anticipating the cookie or the wine or the cigarette. You also get the gratification of having thoughts of when you’ll indulge. For me, I can only enjoy the chocolate almonds when all the kids are settled down at night. Otherwise, I don’t enjoy them half as much. Does that mean my body needs chocolate almonds? No, it means my mind is trying to look forward to something, a small indulgence, an escape.

Our thoughts carry us away into all kinds of places. Thinking about the cookie might be your way of escaping the stress of the day. Thinking about that beer at a Friday happy hour gets a lot of people through the workweek. The thoughts about the food we desire can become obsessive to the point of creating more conflict for you than you need.

We try hating the cookie because we think that’ll keep us from indulging. “Bad cookie. You ruin me with your sugars and I can never just have one of you.” But we know that hating something is as just as bad as obsessing about it. It’s the flip side of the same coin. No matter how you slice it, it’s a bad relationship. The roller coaster of emotion goes up and down, up and down. So what to do?

It’s time to get off the ride. It’s time to break it off with that cookie.

So, how do you break up with a cookie?

1. Cold Turkey

Well, first step is some time off. You need to know that you can live without it. Whatever it is that’s obsessing your mind is just something obsessing your mind. You really don’t need it or thoughts of it. All it does is leave you with a hangover or an extra love handle. Of course, some people can have perfectly normal relationships with their cookies and wine. Remember, this instruction is for those who are in an obsessive, self-destructive relationship with food.

You can live without him.

You heard me. It’s so cliché, but true. Spend time finding yourself again. What was life like before the thoughts of the cookie took over, before all you could think about was emptying that wine bottle after work? What was life like before the thoughts of food invaded your every day? We were all kids once. We can all go back to a time when life was a little more carefree and simple. Go back there in your mind. Find a spot in time where you were free of worry. Whenever your mind wants to latch on to the idea of that cookie or bottle of wine, let it take you to a time when your mind was free and clear.

You don’t have to be harsh and throw the cookies into the garbage, swearing at them, although you can. You can just say, “I don’t need you right now. I need some time alone.” And toss the stuff. It’s very liberating and empowering to realize that you actually don’t need the cookie.

2. Find New Friends

When you lose something, you’ll go through a period of mourning and will need lots of support. Call a real friend to get you through the rough time or make some new food friends that are better for you. I know they’re not as exciting as the cookie, but this is about getting you emotionally stable. Don’t fool yourself into thinking the cookie did anything good for you. That’s your brain’s way of looking for excitement, something to latch onto, something to keep you from being quiet with yourself. You might need a little break from the excitement, too. What goes up must come down. The down isn’t worth the up. We can all get a little addicted to that brain rush that comes from life’s exciting offers, but make sure you keep them healthy for you!

Your new friends might include nature, writing, exercising, a night out with real people.

3. Figure Out What Attracted You to the Cookie in the First Place

Was it the promise that it would give you something you didn’t have? What is your life missing? What might you need to change in your life? Usually, we distract ourselves with mind-numbing behaviors because we’re running away from something else. We don’t want to accept some truth that lurks within us. Perhaps you need to call your mother and have that difficult conversation or find that new job you know will change your life and perspective. Going to the cookie is just another way of going away from your truth. Find your truth and sit with it. Remember, whatever it is – it might not be pretty, but it’s real and worth dealing with in the long run.

4. See the Cookie in a New Light

You need to realize you don’t need the cookie. Once you do that, your relationship will take on a whole new meaning. Perhaps you’ll see her at a party and smile. “I remember you. I remember how I went nuts about you, how you drove me and my thoughts crazy. I’m so different now. I don’t need you anymore.”

Then if you enjoy the cookie or not – no big deal. The cookie doesn’t own your life anymore.

You are finally free.

Should Ronald McDonald Be Sentenced To Death?

OK, so there are groups of people who want to lynch Ronald McDonald. I get it. He’s the wolf in sheep’s clothing, trying to lure children into fast food bliss. We certainly know the eventual outcome of a diet with too much McDonalds in it and are in the mode of trying now to protect our children. “Call out these money-sucking advertising thieves so we can get our kids thinking healthy foods again!”

Well, it’s not that simple.
It’s not that simple ever.
Why? Because Americans need their freedom and messing with Ronald is like messing with George Washington for some people. Also, the rest of the world is hooked.

I remember being in China in 1995 for a women’s conference. It was a gathering of women from around the globe in an attempt to discuss basic human rights issues. I remember a lot of different encounters and clashes during that conference, but one in particular I will never forget. Outside the conference area were food stations where people could go and get a snack. The portable McDonalds had, by far, the longest line of all the food venues. In the line were women from every part of the world, regaled in African dress, veiled, colorful.

Circling the area was a group of American women with signs protesting McDonalds' very existence at the conference. They viewed it as a symbol of American repression and capitalism that had strangled the world with its sick fast food clutches. The American women were angry, shouting, “Down with McDonalds!”

I watched from a distance, curious about the scene.

One African woman finally stepped out of line and said, “Lady, if I want to eat a hamburger, I’m going to eat a hamburger. Get out of my face!”

She wasn’t small. Not that that matters except that she was determined, and overpowered the tiny protestor.

My point in all this is that people need their right to choose. If we start taking it away, there will be a revolt.

Whether Ronald is here tomorrow or not does not rile my patriotic heart. What does is getting my children educated enough to choose their food well, whether companies push their junk with ads or not.

The power is ours.
Plus, who knows? Maybe Ronald will symbolize some healthier foods in a couple of generations. Ronald becomes a vegetarian in 2022?

Ronald is 48 years old this year. If he wants to stay healthy in the minds of those trying to put him in the old folks' home, the least he can do is up his fiber.

Crazy Mom Moment

We all have them, you know -- the crazy mom moments. So, if you're a mother, don't act like they don't happen to you. I'm not proud of them, but they happen.

Now I catch myself trapped in hindsight, head bowed in shame. Blog confession might temper the guilt. Or maybe I'll just be wracked with the memory and never get relief.

It all started the morning I looked at the calendar and decided none of it made any sense. Three children in three different places at the same time (you know how this goes). But, with carpools, I could manage. And one would be late for a game, which coach said was OK.

Then one of my daughters gets a text and decides that she wants to skip practice and go to a friend's birthday party, a friend who has just been released from the hospital after an emergency appendectomy. How could I say no? "Sure, you can miss practice. I'll let the coach and the people I carpool with know."

That change happened with ease.

Then my husband chimed in. "Oh, I forgot to tell you that I have to go to a dinner tonight."

In the mind of the mommy master, he is not eating dinner out. He is picking up one daughter from practice and, now, making sure the other one gets home from the birthday party.

"Oh no. Well, that stinks. I'll have to figure something out." My first reaction was forgiving. My second, not so much. After stewing a bit about untangling the mess, I said, "It would have been nice to know this before this morning!" Then I murmured the words "selfish" and "narcissistic" and dropped it because what's the point?

Off to work and then home to pick up the daughter going to the birthday party. She gets in the car, "Mom, can we go to Big Y to buy Elinor an ice cream cake?" Again, appendectomy.

"Sure, I don't see why not, but I still don't know how you'll get home tonight. I won't be home until 8:00."

"Don't worry. I'll get a ride from someone," she says.

We go to Big Y for the cake. I manage to produce some kind of dinner. I drop one daughter at her friend's and then go get the youngest for her lax game in Somers. Of course, she's late in getting out of her choir practice because the concert is in less than a week, so we start the journey to Somers, already short on time, twenty minutes late. She changes in the car and eats her Subway. A dish is clinking in the back.

"What's that?"

"Oh, Josie left her chili bowl in here from last night," she says.

GROSS! We're eating our dinners in the car! This is what I hate about lax season!

I look ahead, cars lined up for an eternity, crawling down the street. Ahhh...rush hour.

I watch the car clock like I do a horserace had I bet my entire year's salary. Thirty minutes until game start and we're 45 minutes away. I had scribbled directions on a paper and suddenly noticed they lacked the detail I intended to add with a Mapquest search. All I have now are the basic directions from a coach's email. Hmmm... that should be OK. I-91 to 190. A right turn on South Road. Simple enough.

We chat a little. How was your day? I watch the clock. I breathe deeply. That doesn't really help because Cigna traffic has amassed. Ten minutes have passed and I haven't left West Hartford. Breathing deeply only makes me cough.

Finally, I jump on I-91 with only three near miss accidents, none of them my fault, of course.

"We've got fifteen minutes until the game starts!" I look back and Frankie is slumped in the backseat. I look down and see a cooler filled with cut watermelon and oranges. Even though I was assigned oranges, I loaded up on watermelon, too. Never hurts to go the extra mile. The soft cooler bulges. I imagine the fruit getting soggy in the plastic bags with the sun beating through the window. For some reason, I hit the gas.

Finally, exit 47E. Phew. Five minutes until the game starts. "Frankie, you might make it!" I pull off the exit and take a right onto 190, just as my instructions tell me to do. The traffic is worse here. I creep along the road. Clock reads Game Time. I try to maneuver through traffic. We move a little. I curse under my breath. Patient daughter sits in the backseat without saying a word. Her biggest fear is that Mom will have an accident. She assumes I will.

"It's no big deal if I don't get there, Mom. Coach Ann already knows I'll be late."

"Yeah, yeah," I say as I swerve into another lane.

The fruit is disintegrating. Oh no! What if we don't make the game? I paid $20 for fruit that's going to go bad. Now I am obsessing on the fruit.

My directions say that I'll be on 190 for several miles before South Road. I have lost track of mileage only knowing that I've been in traffic for a long time. As I approach a light, I see "South Road" to my right. "We're here!" I yell.

I take a right and expect to see the field right there. That's what it says on the directions. Take a right and the field is right there. I look. No field. "Frankie, do you see a field anywhere?"

"No, Mom." By now, she is in a trance after an already long day.

I cruise down South Road where all I see is grass. Some small houses. Maybe if I go a little further. Nope. Just a funeral home to the left. No field. Wait a minute. There's a field. "No, Mom, those are baseball players." By now, the clock is ticking away. The game has started. I panic and call a friend. He tells me to get to an intersection and he'll figure out where I am.

I sit at the corner of Beech and South, waiting for direction. His computer is rebooting. We make small talk. After ten minutes of confusion, he apologizes and says, "I have to go to a concert."

Great. I pull back onto South and stop on the side of the road to catch pedestrians. "Hey, do you know where Firehouse Field is?" I yell at two high-schoolers wearing Fermi shirts (HELLO!). They look at each other and scratch their heads. Desperate, I pull into the funeral home parking lot and ask mourners if they had any idea where Firehouse Field was. "No, we're from Vermont." Dressed in black, they apologize. Head bowed in shame, I realize what I just did. This is a low point in my life's career.

"I'm really sorry for your loss," I said, embarrassed and humiliated that I would do something so embarrassing and humiliating. Did that knock sense into me? Did that stop me from barreling out of the parking lot? No. I am fixated on getting to this game. I call my middle daughter whose gotten a ride home from her dad who picked her up before his dinner. :) She can't figure out the lax website and suggested I go to a gas station.

I finally find one. Of course, the barely English-speaking man had NO IDEA where Firehouse Field was. I walked out and proclaimed, "I am going to kill myself! I am going to kill myself right out here in front of your gas station!" I'm sure he wasn't clear as to whether he should laugh or call 911.

Then I accost a woman getting into her car at the gas station. "Please help me," I say as I tap on her window. She opens the window. "I can't find Firehouse Field."

"Firehouse Field?" I have no idea where that might be." I sigh with exasperation with no higher self in existence. Who does this? Who carries on about getting to a lax game? Apparently, I do. Feeling defeated, I walk back to my car prepared to drive home with a cooler full of cut fruit and a very disappointed little girl. The woman calls out, "Hey, what town is it in?"

I turn around. "Somers," I say, as if obvious. "Aren't we in Somers?"

"No, this is Enfield. Somers is about 2 miles further down." She points east.

What an arse I am.

We got there right before half-time. Frankie played most of the second half. The girls got their lax behinds kicked real bad, but they enjoyed every succulent slice of watermelon and wedge of orange.

I think I should invest in a GPS.
Fermi, by the way, is the high school in Enfield. Duh.

Don't Slap Moms With a Price Tag

Since 6:00 AM this morning, I have made breakfast, fixed up lunches, located shorts for one daughter, a lax uniform for another. I’ve bandaged up an infected toe, written an early dismissal note, fielded a dozen questions. “Who’s driving? What time will you be home? How am I getting to the jamboree tomorrow? Did you buy a present for the Bat Mitzvah? Have you heard from Grandma? Is she coming on Sunday? Did you buy batteries for the Wii remotes? Why can’t we dog sit Benny and Sophie again this weekend?”

I’ve loaded the washer with dirty clothes, emptied the dishwasher, answered three emails, helped rhyme a poem for teacher appreciation day and now I sit down to breathe for a second (it's 7:21, 10 minutes before I drive my middle daughter to middle school) and read the Courant’s front page (Yes, we still get the paper version. Don't ask!).

The left column reads, “How Much Is Mom Worth?” Of course, I’m curious. I feel worthy, but I have only had the discussion of a mom’s monetary value ONCE because the concept is beyond ridiculous. I imprisoned the man in the corner with my finger in his face as I tallied up the mom tasks. Then, when I was short on my list, I pulled out the big guns. “How can we actually measure a mom’s worth?” I yelled. “There are all kinds of moms. How ‘bout those ‘executive moms’ -- the moms who would be running the companies if they took that energy out into the world? They do it all! You can’t put a price tag on being a mom.’”

The man backpedaled and agreed that no insurance policy, even the one valued at a million dollars, could ever cover a mom’s value. That man, my husband, hasn’t uttered a word about replacing me with an insurance policy since.

I’m sure he read the headlines this morning and wanted nothing more than to bury them beneath sections C and D where this article belongs. Seriously, why are we telling moms they’re only worth $61,436.00 on the front page? I hope there’s plenty of backlash for Mr. Sturdevant, the messenger.

I remember reading a while back that to replace Mom would cost in the range of $400,000 a year. Lots of stay-at-home moms celebrated this affirmation. Not me. A mom’s value is beyond money. Any attempt at equating Mom with dollar signs, high or low, is a futile one. Moms are simply irreplaceable. A sad, but true, fact.

How does it go? “Summer activity planner -- $8, 726. Nursing wounds -- $430. Fixing up the house -- $1,000. A mom’s love – priceless.”

Love cannot be deposited into a bank account.