Hi LADIES! - And the few brave gents willing to put up with this post. LOL!
This week is National Eating Disorder Awareness Week. Wow, the government has given us the green light to vent! They are sooooo kind, doing such a great job too (massive sarcasm). So without further adieu, I give you a delicious rant on LBS....
The scale is a bunch of numbers that mean nothing and EVERYTHING. That pesky, dangerous box is a booby trap full of good and bad news math. I hate math, I hate the scale. When I was a bun-head ballerina I would weigh myself everyday and then punish or praise myself accordingly. On punishment days I'd yack. Tis true, tis pathetic, tis my history, a golden nugget that makes me wise and human. However, that BOX is just that, a small container to cage ourselves. Prison is not sexy. No matter how cool it looks in the movies, prison is not a place to voluntarily visit.
Food: We adore it, despise it, worship and pray over it, we obsess and curse the voodoo grip it has over us. Food is the worst and best kind of lovah. Just when we think we've got it all figured out, stress and/or an emotional poop pie welcomes a malaise that lulls us into a state of gluttony. Or does this just happen to me?
Back in my meat eating days I would speed through the drive-through dragging my scratched-up sage voice behind. "STOP! PLEASE! You're gonna regret it!" she'd shout. "Fuck off you damn goody goody, I'm chowin'." Been there? I'll share another lovely reminder of the issues in my tissues. My recent scan was really good. HOWEVER, the scale barked numbers that I had never seen before. I KNOW, IT'S RIDCULOUS, but I couldn't help but wonder how the heck this happen? Where was I when those LBS hijacked my temple? PS. No Deb, I'm not preggers. You are naughty.
How is it possible that I'm not perfect? I've spent 3.5 gazillion dollars on high quality therapy and people pay me for my thoughts. Even if I hid in a cave, wore a loincloth and tattered bra and meditated forever, there would still be times when I craved heroin and cupcakes. And guess what? Some days I have the damn cupcakes - heroin, not so much.
CanSer creates an enormous pile of stress in our lives. Most of us developed a bunch of eating issues long before the wake up call. Now canSer. The little “c” can make you feel like you have no more excuses. Yeah, OK, but the power struggle with food still exists - perhaps more than ever.
After much trial, error and Scream Fests ('03, '04, '05, '06 - the reunion tour of '07 and now '08), this is what I know for sure: Eating is a source of comfort and happiness for everyone! When life is out of control the easiest thing to grab is a snack. Snacks and feedbags = control. When babies realize that they have control over what goes in and out of their bodies, all hell breaks loose. Like everything else, it's a practice; it's a life long compassionate experiment. I can't amputate my problems, but I can work to get in front of them, to issue spot and see them coming a mile away. When the storm brews it's a sign that I am out of balance. Ok, great revelation, but the damn storm is coming so what do you do? Prep yourself.
Hurricane Twinkie pig-out check list:
1. Junk OUT of my cabinets and fridge. I cannot be trusted.
2. Healthy snacks on hand, pre-cut/washed veggies and juice stuff prepped and ready in Tupperware containers.
3. Quick and easy side dishes ready and waiting to accessorize my big nightly salad. Rice pasta, quinoa, sweet potatoes, millet, soba noodles, garden burgers, hummus, Ezekiel bread, manna bread, etc.
4. Other staples, almond butter, tahini, nuts, oil cured nuts, great oils, hemps seeds, flax seeds, avocados, avocados, avocados...
5. Lots of yummy teas and lemon for my groovy lemonade which I sip constantly - (lemon, water, stevia).
6. Time carved out for smoothie/juice breaks.
7. A wee bit of fruit and a few healthy sweet treats (even though CanSer doesn't like sugar, I do and I can't always say NO).
8. A clean bathtub to hide in - with candles.
9. My rebounder OUT and ready for jumping.
10. A long walk ASAP.
The rains will pass, and when they do - get back on track. 80/20. Which for me means that I am raw till noon and then 80% of every meal I eat is raw and 20% is cooked. Better translated: Look at your plate and break it down like a pizza pie. 80% is salad and raw delight. 20% of the portion is your side dish. Make sense? PS. Dee had a great description of this on the last blog.
It’s easy to see the neglect and “bad” choices. It’s hard to see the good stuff, to pat ourselves on the back for our triumphs. Those "good" things contribute to our energy bank account. I guarantee that you are making more deposits than withdrawals. Lighten up (I’m speaking to myself too). This "raw/vegan/health thing" shouldn't feel like prison or deprivation, there must be room for being human. As I recently said to a good pal, let's focus less on our bodies and more on our perception of our bodies. Whoa. Aren't we our harshest critics? Someone or something beat us up long ago. That moment has passed and yet we still carry the Louisville Slugger – and the scale.
For many of us, a healthy weight is not the one we’re constantly chasing. It’s the one we’re at when we say, “Oh, if I could just lose five or ten pounds . . .” When I stop criticizing my numbers I have more free head-space to make and consume better meals.
I feel better now. Thanks.
Peace and scale stomping,
PS. And while we're at it, throw out the magazines that pollute our body image. They create what I call the seesaw effect. One week we’re too thin, the next, too fat. These magazines target and magnify the cellulite on unsuspecting vacationing celebrities. How dare she let down humanity! Let’s stop, drop and roll. When we judge miss starlet we're measuring and judging ourselves. We’re contributing to goddess oppression. Free her!
The Scale - PART 1
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Posted by cancer cowgirl xo at 7:54 AM