Phat with a P-H

When I was in the eighth grade my dad called me into the kitchen to teach me how to count calories and matter-of-factly told me that I have the body type that gains weight easily. I interpreted this as, you will grow up to be a fat cow. Moo. Up until then I had never thought about my weight; as in there is a certain weight you're supposed to aspire to maintaining.

There are three distinctive times I can remember actively trying to lose weight. The first being in high school when taking diet pills was the 'in' thing to do. Maybe we had watched that episode of Beverly Hills 90210 when Kelly takes diet pills and binges on potato salad too many times. I think I liked taking diet pills more for the illicit, I-could-be-the-star-of-a-Lifetime movie factor rather than the weight loss benefit. The pills seemed to be working for everyone but me. My friends would take them, drink diet soda and push their lunches around their trays. I took them, felt sick, and restrained myself from asking for seconds of the tater tot casserole. I began to think that I had a mutation that caused my body to react differently to diet pills than other people. The pills seemed to make me hungrier, which missed the point of taking them in the first place. There's no use in taking diet pills if you're going to ask everyone at your cafeteria table if they're going to eat the rest of their cheesecake.

The second time I tried to lose weight was freshman year of college. I joined the free campus gym. For a week, every day I would march up the hill and sweat it out. The next week I would quit. A couple of weeks later I'd give it another try. I tried to make it a routine but just couldn't. Even if I did lose any weight, it wouldn't have balanced out the weight I had gained. But late night beer fests and drive thru meals are inevitable in dorm life, things that are truly unavoidable and I had to live up to my potential as a thriving college freshman. Plus, I'm a firm believer that anything that happens after midnight doesn't count. This includes the consumption of any and all fast food. I didn't even take part in the stereotypical freshman year eating disorder. The closest I ever came to something like that was eating waffles and chicken fingers for dinner, guzzling alcohol all night and then puking around 2 a.m. This was passive-aggressive bulimia and not only did it not make me lose weight, it made me feel like shit.

I had come to the conclusion that weight loss was just not for me. I was fine how I was. I had clothes that fit. I didn't have a scale to constantly bounce on and off of to face me with the reality of the weight I had gained and I was never one to really factor in weight as an issue that affected my happiness in life. But last year I was faced with the ultimate weight loss test: lose ten pounds in three months before my brother's wedding in Florida. I arrived at the gym with my new sneakers on and proclaimed my weight loss goal. I was set up with a trainer for six free sessions since I was a new member. I was on my way.

During the first session the trainer made me get on the treadmill. To run. I don't run. I don't run after things. I don't run when I'm in a hurry. I don't even really run when cars threaten to plow me over. She said, "Oh, just get on and run for five minutes. Trust me, once you start, you'll love it." I looked at her and told her that clearly she did not know me and to trust in the fact that I will never love running. Ever. My body rejects the endorphins that come from running because it is too pissed off at me for running in the first place. But, I wanted to lose ten pounds so I slowly started to jog. I glanced down at the timer to see that I had only been on there for twenty seconds. Twenty seconds! I felt a sharp pang in my side, gasping for breath, sweat trickling down my temple, I was dying. Then the trainer started pushing buttons and what was happening, she was upping the speed?!? Oh my god, I am going to be the flailing girl that flies off the treadmill. My feet felt heavy and it sounded like a herd of elephants clomping onto the moving belt. I looked around to make sure no one was laughing or sneering or staring at me. No one was. Every one looked like they were gliding on their treadmills, like they were trying out to be in a Nike commercial. Running was followed by introduction to the elliptical machine which I actually enjoyed and started using on my own after my training sessions until I was semi-stalked by a man who stayed on his elliptical for over an hour grunting in a very disturbing way the whole time. One time he grunted and moaned so loudly I was beginning to wonder if he was listening to downloaded porn. No matter which machine I picked, he somehow ended up beside me. The elliptical was out. The treadmill was out. And it was around this time that I was informed that not only did I have to exercise to lose weight, I had to change my eating habits as well. Say what? The wedding was now two months away and weight lost was zero. I went on my first diet.

I enjoy buffets. I like appetizer samplers as a whole meal to myself. Often times when dining out with others I have multiple plates and eat more food than my dining companions. For my diet, I was to eat egg white omelets plus oatmeal for breakfast. I had to include four or five egg whites in my omelet. A couple hours later I could eat a snack. Then lunch of grilled chicken and brown rice. Another snack. Dinner of fish or grilled chicken and rice. Repeat. Every day. For the rest of my life. Plus, I had to count out my snacks. If I wanted to eat grapes, I could only eat twenty. I had to count out twenty grapes. I could eat one miniscule size serving of yogurt which I had to pick out based on the sugar content. I had to spend ten minutes in the grocery store cooler turning the cartons around to read the labels to make sure I got the right one. This yogurt cup I ate in four bites. A treat was five M&M's or seven sliced strawberries sprinkled with Splenda. The diet lasted a day and a half.

Wedding time rolled around and I lost maybe three pounds, nowhere near my goal, but I kept working out. I started taking a weightlifting and kickboxing class and after awhile people began to ask if I lost weight. But they would ask in a really incredulous way, in a tone that made me think, did I really weigh that much before? Did I grow up to be a fat cow and didn't realize it? And what if I gain this weight back? Is it going to be a cycle of calorie counting, diet pills, and treadmill tries? Doubt it. I think it is the self-criticism I have when I look in the mirror that is both a curse and a blessing to me. Because when I look in the mirror I don't know how I'm supposed to look. I don't know how much I should weigh. I don't know if my thighs look any skinnier than last month and I don't think my stomach will ever be flat without me holding it in. But most days I am ok with how I look and once in a blue I look in the mirror and feel fabulous. So when people hint to me that I need to lose/gain/maintain weight I take their comments into consideration. I really do. Usually when they are saying this however, I'm eating my second ice cream sandwich in the car on the way to the gym.

If You're Single and You Know it, Clap Your Hands

I am going home for one day during this prelude to summer weekend. And, I bet more than one person will ask me if I'm seeing anyone. This question will come from people who will be disappointed when I tell them that I am in fact single. Their faces will register dismay and possibly horrified looks if I jokingly (or unjokingly) say, but I do enjoy casual sex. They will half smile and look around uncomfortably and I will feel the need to leave the situation as gracefully and quickly as possible with a 'take care' and an ass-out hug. I am not looking forward to this.

Most days out of the year, I say 360, I feel like I am happy with my life decisions on a daily. So why is it those other five days I'm faced with questions or people who can make my confidence take a nose dive? Or more importantly, why do I let them? Why is it people are so concerned with pairing you up? It's almost as if I said that I was part of a couple they could breathe easier and know that I've joined the realm of I don't know, coupledom I guess. I will be given reassurances that I will find someone or that I am still young so there's time, though the latter will be said with hesitation and I know they do not really believe this. When this happens I want to say, "Thank you for this eye-opening epiphany. I can quit eating my feelings and show my face in public again." But, I will smile and shrug, embarassed that they are embarassed for me. If you dare utter that you like being single this is like admitting that you like being clubbed in the head with a bat. And therefore no one will believe you; which makes me feel insecure and I begin to wonder, do I like being single? I mean I think I do...I don't know...ok...I guess not. This of course pisses me off because like I said 360 days of the year I am fine with my decisions; I stand behind them, but then those other five days...

I don't know how to answer the question in a right way. Are you dating someone? No. Silence follows. Is that the most interesting thing about me? My relationship status. You have no other questions? If this is the case then it doesn't matter if I am single, married, or practicing polygamy. Is it that some people can't fathom that there are people who enjoy being single or better yet people who don't really take their relationship status into consideration on a daily basis. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't kick prince charming out the door, but I don't wake up in the morning, stretch and say, gosh darn it, I wish I wasn't single. I don't sit at home on Friday night and read my horoscope to see if I might find answers to meeting my mate. I don't go out drinking to pick up guys and I don't feel that the fact that I'm single and some guy who is hitting on me is also single qualifies for a match made in heaven.

What do I do in the meantime? Do I lie and say that I'm ready to find the one because then my goal would be an understandable one or do I tell the truth and say I like my life how it is. Either way I will sound like someone who doesn't have a life or someone who is looking forward to a spinster life and a house full of cats.

Since I am T minus three days I have to come up with a plan in the interim. My plan is this: if I get asked if I'm seeing anyone and it's someone that is clearly only asking to be nosy not because they are genuinely interested, I will say, Yes, I am actually. And I have three children. It's great because all of my children's fathers get along. My boyfriend and I have been trying to have a child of our own now. It's hard for us to spend any time together though since I'm teaching water aerobics during the day and he deejays out of his parent's basement at night and most of the time is high and can't focus. I will say all of this with a Bud Light in my hand. I will say, I think I am about four weeks pregnant, not sure, but will confirm with the doctor on Tuesday. Sure glad I'm not single. Whew.

Rehab: Everyone's Doing It

My friend told me she saw a shirt that says, "I'm so hungover I could die." She says that I should wear this shirt every Saturday. I laugh but then think, is my typical weekend behavior much different than all those precautionary tales we hear about binge drinking? Is it much different than that of the celebrities who enter rehab for partying too much? Am I cautionary tale one step away from simulataneously flashing my crotch and the peace sign to whoever is standing nearby?

Lately, rehab seems like the favorable thing to do. But, when did it become a celebrity's act of contrition? Does the fact that a person is going to rehab answer any questions of the destructive behavior that has proceeded entry into rehab? I flashed my crotch at the world to see, but now I am in rehab. I made aggressive, racial slurs, but now I am in rehab. O-k, we forgive you. Is it really believable that those publicly taking part in rehab services are going to quit drinking, partying, cracking out?

If this is the case, then I have saved myself a fortune because Monday through Friday is rehab for me. I can use those days of the week to apologize for any behavior that was showcased on Friday through Sunday that might be deemed inappropriate. Monday through Friday I mirror the look of that of a semi-responsible adult. I go to bed at a decent hour. I don't eat meals that come from the drive-thru and typically refrain from drinking alcohol, partying, and cracking out. But, then comes Friday and it's a different story. Everything I have learned during the week, all the brain cells that I have regained slip away into the early morning hours of Saturday. If the Friday night is a particularly rough one, meaning that I have either a) puked, b) drunk dialed, c) passed out with my clothes on or d) all of the above, then I'm cursing myself the next day while I hug the base of the toilet and lay on the cool bathroom floor. I repent for my sins, promise to do better, and pray for the serenity to accept the things I cannot change (Jaegerbombs always cause vomit reflex), the courage to change the things I can (not drinking so fast and furious) and wisdom to know the difference (I thought I knew). By Sunday evening I am feeling better with McDonald's, Sprite and naps on the couch having such miraculous comforts to my body, mind and spirit I feel that I am in control once more.

The week begins again. I go to work. I pay my bills. I go to the gym and watch reality tv. I have kicked my habit. I am rehabilitated. I didn't need 30 days to figure it out, only five. So if Saturday is the day to wear a shirt that says, "I'm so hungover I could die", then I believe Friday night I should start wearing a shirt that says, "Never fear rehab starts again on Monday."

Are We Still Talking About This?

Can men and women really be friends? Ah, the ever annoying, go-to question that seems to pop up in conversations around the country. The constant debate charges on and everyone has a different idea, different perspective of this timeless topic. Perhaps the question is situational and can only be applied on an individual basis. Perhaps it's a rhetorical question and the best part is not coming up with an answer, but rather debating arguments for both sides. However, the point that is being missed, the real question should be, 'Does it even matter?'

Does it matter if men and women can't be friends only? Does that mean that there is something wrong with either party? The truth of the matter is that if you spend time with someone, anyone on a long term basis it's for a reason. The reason being that you choose it to be that way. No one is forcing you. That's the beauty of friendships, even ones that may cross the line into a relationship. Say that Harry seeks Sally for a friends with benefits situation only or vice-versa, is this so wrong that we have to place a high pressure on the both of them to define the situation? Annoyingly enough, a male-female platonic relationship doesn't have to be definable until it does. Huh, you say? If the issue is never brought up and both are ok with just being friends, just being friends with benefits, just being friends in romantic denial, then what is there to worry about? Why define it when you can just enjoy it?

The trouble comes when there is analyzation of the future and the questions arise. Questions such as: What if I start dating someone? What if he/she starts dating someone? What if I like him/her and he/she doesn't like me back? The friendship from that point on is doomed. Carefree days of friendly drinks and catching a movie are long gone as we search for 'signs' that usually are not there or that we've made up. We see what we want to see and avoid what we don't. It's a tricky mess that can either float along on a cloud of self-denial, move into a relationship that is far better than any platonic feelings, or remain in the same stage forever. The latter is hardly ever true, because feelings change. I am not being pessimistic. I am being honest.

Now I know you're saying at this very moment, but I do have a guy/girl that I am just friends with. No, ya don't. You only think you do. Just as Harry pointed out to Sally in the movie. Because either you and this person are not very good friends, meaning you see each other maybe twice a year if that and randomly email updates to each other, he/she likes you or you like him/her. And, why wouldn't we want to turn something platonic into something romantic? Because it might hinder the friendship? I think the chance of romance might trump the friends only stage. But that's just me.

So, it doesn't matter if men and women can't be friends. It's great if they can. It is something that should be viewed individually because if you find yourself amid a conversation that has even posed this question, it means that there is a friendship that is bordering the line of relationship. It might be yours. And, really is that such a bad thing?

This Is Only a Test

Whatever happened to the days of yore? Yesteryear? The good ol' days? The days when the biggest problems were not bills or work commitments or the thought of settling down, but if our parents were going to let us stay out later than midnight. Or better yet, how were we going to sneak out if our parents didn't let us stay out. I've had some fun times, really fun times; though nothing can quite be compared to the summer following my senior year of high school. Maybe it was the sweet sense of release from the confines of high school and soon the confines of a small town that made us act so crazy. Or maybe we were just kids with summer lust in our eyes and fearlessness in our veins. Probably a mixture of both. Was it a good idea to do what we did? Well, it wasn't a bad one. Staying out all night and racing home before certain old men would appear at the highway diner for their morning coffee. Hanging out with rogue out-of-towners who were labeled as taboo and in someone's word, 'icky'. If you've never drank beer in a pasture, if you've never ridden on a couch in the back of a pickup down main street, if you've never found it so easy to find cheap entertainment, then of course you can't relate. If you weren't part of the summer of '99 then in no way can you relate.

I miss that summer. Partly, I miss being a lifeguard, which is the best job for someone as lazy as me. I miss my friend sleeping on my couch, us waking up hungover just to make it through work so we can stay out all night. I miss doing things that looking back now makes me feel old. Makes me think, how did we ever survive, why are we still not that crazy and fun? It's the confusion of becoming an adult that I would trade in for those carefree days. I liked the petty drama of will he/won't he call when I was 17, but now it's plain exhausting. The whole question of, 'What am I going to do with my life?' is endearing at that age, but now there should be some kind of answer forming in the brain. I'm right there on the edge, trying to balance it all out, the part where I want to be a kid and have fun and say, "I have plenty of time to figure it all out' and then the other part that pressures me to settle down, look down the road ten years and plan for the future. And, the balancing sucks.

So, what is the answer? You can't get memories back. You can't relive them though we would like to try. There is no going back and feeling sad that life is moving on with or without us. I think it was Benjamin Franklin who said, "Don't put off until tomorrow what can be done today." However, I say, that's exactly what tomorrow was made for.

Another day to try to figure it all out.