Diet Diary- Entry #5

Dear Diary,
Why is motivation so selective? The moment I set my mind to eating well or exercising more is the very moment I start to crave chocolate and feel like vegging out on the couch and watching TV. What’s up with that? I don’t lack motivation. Seriously. Sometimes I get a craving- cake, fries, chip ‘n salsa. I don’t always have those things readily available at home. So, I have to get up, drive to the store and get them. Do you know how much motivation is required for that alone? Selective motivation, that’s what I call it. I need to get to the bottom of this… figure out how to redirect that motivation to more positive endeavors. I think I’ll ponder more on that as I eat some Smarties. Surely that will help.

Rodent Taunting Ends in Death

There are few things in life that scare me. Walking alone at night, operating power tools, haunted houses, talking to strangers… these are all things I can handle with courage and confidence. If I hear a noise in the house, I usually seek it out, not hide from it. Why then does the sight of a mouse in the pantry send me into jittery convulsions, running like Freddy Kruger is in the kitchen? I’d be fine fighting off a human attacker, or running a chainsaw, but a mouse brings out my inner scaredy-cat. This is a creature that is a third the size of my hand. Imagine how frightened he must be of the giant girl who just caught him raiding the food shelf. That is, until she runs off screaming in fits of fear. Then I’m sure he gets a good laugh and soon all the mice come to the pantry for some free entertainment. That’s how I imagine it.

Well, I refuse to be the butt of mouse jokes anymore. Today, there are no mice laughing in our house. Instead, their little mice minds are reeling over the murder of two of their gang members, whom Allison and I un-affectionately named George and Eddie. At some point during the night last night, there was a walk-by snapping and George and Eddie were murdered in health defense.

There are some things I just don't need to know.

So, there’s a pregnant woman working at an undisclosed Exxon station who apparently wants to have her tubes tied. How do I know this, you wonder. Glad you asked.
Because as I was getting my morning caffeine on my way to work, I stood between two store employees who were having a very un-private conversation across the store… literally across the store. The pregnant woman was discussing her OBGYN appointments and how someone she knows is trying to dissuade her from having her tubes tied.

I glanced around the store. Am I the only one who thinks this is weird?

“Well, she can’t force me to have another damn baby,” she stated.

Seriously, are you having this conversation… here? Now?

The girl working the register was relatively quiet and I made the assumption that she was just as appalled at the unprofessional behavior on display. That was, until she started spouting off expletives as she joined their conversation after she finished my transaction.

I guess the upside is that they weren’t talking about menstrual cycles or their sex lives. But then again, there aren’t really levels of inappropriateness. It either is or isn’t.
And, if talking about your female doctor visits and medical procedures on your reproductive organs isn’t inappropriate for that situation, I don’t know what is.

Diet Diary - Entry #4

Dear Diary,
I’m starting to realize what a psychological battle this whole fitness goal is. There’s a saying that “age is a state of mind.” I wish fat were that way… you know, “fat is a state of mind.” Maybe I’ll start using that phrase. Surely it will catch on. Today I feel like “fat is a state of mine.” I refuse to be defeated by attitude though. If I’m going down, it will be under the oppression of donuts and cake, not a self-pitying attitude. I think I will set goals each week, starting now. This week’s goal- lose at least three pounds in the next seven days. A lofty goal considering PMS is just around the corner and my body will soon go into camel-like behaviors of water retention. I think I can do it though. Of course, this probably means I’ll need to exercise this week. Sometimes I think this fitness goal requires too much of me.

The Power of Personal Touch

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a fan of e-mail. It’s quick, it’s easy, it’s free, and it’s immediate. And because of its convenience, it has all but replaced the hand written letter. I love e-mails. I love that I can easily store them in a folder and just as easily retrieve them for future readings. But, there is something impersonal about e-mail. Maybe it’s the type, or the uniformity of it all, of the cyber delivery of it. Maybe it’s the realization that it takes such little effort to send it that lessens its value.

I’ve been slowly unpacking boxes after my move a few months ago and I recently came across a box of cards and letters. As I was sifting through a stack, my heart stopped as quickly as my hand. I sat motionless for a moment, unable to move, to blink, to breathe. Tears welled up and I knew that any effort to stop them would be in vain so I let them flow. My hand shook as I lifted three letters from the stack, letters addressed to me from my older sister who died ten years ago. I hadn’t even pulled the letter from the envelope and already I was paralyzed with emotion. There was something about holding the envelope, knowing that it had once been in her hands as she thought of me. There was something about seeing her handwriting, imagining her hand moving along the lines- knowing she was tired or in a hurry when the letters slurred. It was personal, it was tangible, and in a way it was a small piece of her. Through the years, it’s gotten more difficult to clearly recall the image of her face and the sound of her voice- and with each failure to do so, there is a slight feeling of another loss. As I sat there reading, I felt those letters bring her back to me for those fifteen minutes.

When I finished, I safely tucked them away right next to another stack of letters- love letters that my dad had written to my mom before they were married. Since my parents divorced when I was six, I never witnessed the love that once existed between them. Sometimes I sit and read my dad’s letters and know that at one time, things were as they should be. I’m comforted by that fact.

It’s difficult to reflect on the past and not think about the future, knowing that today will one day be ten years ago. Often when Jon leaves town, I will try and send a few cards and notes with him to read while he’s away. For his last trip, I decided to write him a love letter… a letter that will one day hopefully be even more meaningful than it is now.

I’m aware that in an age of computers and technology, I often take for granted the power of personal touch. It’s much easier for me to type a quick e-mail and get on with the day than it is to take the time to hand write a note or card for someone I care about. I know from experience that there is no promise of tomorrow. Someday, I’ll be gone. People will forget my face and the sound of my voice will fade from their memory. But hopefully, those I love will one day sit and hold something personal from me… something as seemingly insignificant as a letter or card- and the one thing that won’t be forgotten is how I loved and thought about them.

I'm With Stupid

Jon recently rear-ended another car, altering the front of his in such a way that his hood will not completely latch. So, when he had to leave for a conference last night, I offered to let him drive my car to Atlanta. I’m leaving town on a camping trip today, so I decided to get up early this morning, pack up my gear, return some movies to the store, grab some breakfast and still be at work on time. A plan that seemed to be successful until I tried to start Jon’s car. No luck. Maybe I’m doing something wrong, I thought- since he had warned me about a security feature, having something to do with how you unlock the doors, use the clicker remote, etc. So I got out of the car, locked the doors, unlocked the doors, and got back in to try again. Nothing. After a few expletives and some strong “sighs,” I tried to call him. His phone was off. My roommate offered to help with the process and I decided to try Jon again. He answered in his I’ve been awake for two minutes kind of voice. “How are you?” he asked. I decided to skip the pleasantries. “Well, I’m okay except I can’t get your car started.” After a few minutes of speculation (doors ajar, dome light left on, etc.) he suddenly said, “OH!” At this point a slight feeling of relief rushed through me as I anticipated some secret method of operation. Maybe his CRV was more high tech than I thought. Perhaps a retinal scan or finger print analysis was required for the ignition. I felt sure the solution was coming. “You have to hold the clutch in when you start it.”
(We’ll pause here to let that one sink in.)

I bit my lip and decided to let that one go. He’s stressed and tired, I thought to myself. He probably didn’t mean to call me a moron (implied) and he doesn’t need me to blow that remark out of proportion. Though apparently we need to spend more time together if he thinks I’m that stupid.

My roommate and I got the car jumped off and as I was driving to work, I started thinking about my experiences as an assumed idiot.

I remember when I started my job at the church. One of my co-workers asked me for an average Sunday attendance from the previous year. As he started to walk away from my desk, he said, “You do know how to do averages, don’t you?” Hmmmm. Well, aside from the fact that I did attend college (where I got an A in statistics), I also graduated middle school. So, yes- I know how to do an average. This was my own silent conversation of course. To him, I just politely nodded my head and tried not to roll my eyes.

I guess I should be thankful that it happens on occasion because it reveals my pride… the pride that causes my jaws to clench and my skin to tingle when I try to restrain myself from verbally assaulting the offender. It’s also a good lesson in self-control. And, I’m also acutely aware that it is that same pride that causes the problem in the first place… the same pride that causes me to treat people as though I think they’re idiots… the same pride that made the “I’m With Stupid” tee shirt so popular.

Diet Diary - Entry #3

Dear Diary,
I fear that I’m losing motivation. It’s been three weeks and I’ve only lost three pounds. I’m starting to think that the discipline and sacrifice aren’t worth it. Sometimes a Snickers really doesn’t satisfy, but they are easier to eat on the elliptical. Cake crumbles and then people look at me funny because it makes a mess. Maybe I should get a part-time job at the Y. Then I could say that I spend a lot of time at the gym. That impresses some people. I have a lot of good ideas. I think a vending machine would be good in the locker rooms. Everyone likes a good snack every now and then. I AM glad they put those new TVs on the cardio equipment… and those little salsa cup holders are a great idea. I still haven’t found a good place to put my chips. Maybe I’ll fill out a suggestion card. They can’t be expected to think of everything.

Statement of the Week - One

Jon's response to my teasing about his feminine-looking journal:

"It's not girlie, it's sparkley!"

Right... that's a good defense.

This is Why I Don't Carry a Handgun

Dear Driver,
I’m curious- did you wake up this morning with the sole purpose of pissing me off? Maybe it wasn’t your goal per se. Maybe you can’t help being a jerk anymore than I can help being easily irritated by idiots. We all have our faults. I’m usually willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. I mean, I suppose those road signs that read, “Right lane ends, merge left” are a little ambiguous. And maybe you suddenly didn’t know what to do when those dotted lines ended and the two lanes became one. Most people probably would have fallen in behind the car that was obviously already in front of them, but I can see how panic may have been your reasoning for speeding up and trying to pass on my right where there obviously was no longer a lane (or space for that matter). Of course I wanted to move over into the lane on my left to give you the space you rightfully deserved, but other motorist were using it. Slamming on my brakes seemed to be my only option. Laying down on the horn and throwing my hand up in the air was an optional reaction however. I’m sure I’ll see you on the road again tomorrow, driving another car. Maybe then you’ll be demonstrating how to not use a turn signal, or how to effectively block an intersection. My response will be the same. See you then.

Diet Diary- Entry #2

Dear Diary,
Water retention is a cruel curse on the female body. I see no need for my body to store up excess water. Nashville is not a desert climate. There is no drought. I’m not a camel. At an intake of at least three liters a day, there is no need for my body to think that more water won’t be coming. Why? Why? Why? On a positive note, I have given up M&Ms and french fries on my commute to the YMCA. I am cooking and eating healthier meals and snacks. Still, I only have two pounds to report. Perhaps I shouldn’t have ordered the fried appetizer combo platter for my meal at dinner last week. I DID eat the vegetable plate at a local meat ‘n three for lunch, but I guess fried okra, mashed potatoes, and creamed corn were not the healthiest choices. That “vegetable” thing can be tricky.