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| Like many women, I have dieted throughout most of my adult life. I am perpetually either gaining weight or losing it. Overachiever that I am, instead of gaining the mere "freshman 15" during my first year at college, I gained thirty pounds. At a low point, I remember eating an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby ice cream on a Blue Bus en route to North Campus. Impressive, given it was only about a 15-minute ride from my dorm. When I got the School of Music, my destination, I felt like a Blue Bus. In my twenties, I discovered Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Atkins, and the liquid diet. I ruled out Slim Fast back in high school when I blacked out after a run. Running. At least I have always loved running. I love to exercise. But rather than use exercise as a tool to help me lose weight, I have often used it as an excuse to eat more.
When I became pregnant, I felt an enormous relief with regard to body image. I started my pregnancy about 15 pounds overweight. Yet for the first time in my adult life, I did not feel compelled to lose weight. No one expected me to grow thinner, not even me. Certainly not my prenatal care provider. I was so happy to not have the weight issue plaguing me that I gained 45 pounds. All of it and then some melted away from nursing and not sleeping. Parenthood has turned out to be the best weight loss program for me, to date.
During my recent visit to my hometown, I reconnected with a girlfriend I haven't seen since we graduated high school 14 years ago. My mom had run into her at the doctor's office (she's a nurse) and did not initially recognize her. My girlfriend has lost over 100 pounds in the past 18 months, and has probably 30 or so to go. Believe you me, I do not judge. I am inspired by her amazing efforts, and I know with certainty that it could just as easily have been me. I could easily have been the girl who gained 100+ pounds. Why? Because I am rather compulsive in nature and because I have only recently developed a healthy relationship with food.
In fact, I feel I have turned a corner and have exactly the right perspective on food, which has made all the difference for me. The number on the scale drops, and yes I still check it obsessively, but I like how my clothes are fitting, and I like how I look. I still go to Weight Watchers, but I am within 2 pounds of my "goal weight" so I don't have to pay anything. I am considered a 'Lifetime Member,' and you know what? That's exactly right. I will be working to eat properly and maintain my health, if not my waistline, for my entire life. I concluded years ago that I am glad that I have to work at maintaining a healthy weight. If I were naturally thin, I would not make fiber, whole grains, and lean protein a daily priority. If I could, I would eat pizza and McDonald's every day, or at least every week. Yes, I would. But thank the Good Lord for knowing me so well, because I run and I eat right for vanity's sake, and as a byproduct I keep this heart of mine healthy. Heart disease runs in my family, as does cancer. So I guess I will live longer and leaner.
Is this my happy ending? Hardly. I had what Oprah calls an "ah-hah" moment today. Something clicked in my brain. I have been too busy patting myself on the back for all the smart choices I've made lately with regard to food. I have been reveling in how good I look and feel and how healthy my entire outlook on eating has become, and then it hit me: Food was not my problem. Indulgence was and continues to be the heart of my struggle. I notice that I have been spending more money lately. Twenty bucks here, thirty there. I consider myself a frugal person. We budget and plan financially and do well with regards to money. But lately, I have felt guilty over unnecessary purchases. I have experienced Buyer's Remorse. Not that I haven't felt guilty over spending money in the past, but lately it hasn't kept me from continuing the cycle. Repentance will come in full when my credit card statement arrives. It was a pricey lesson, but so valuable: Now that I am not overindulging in food, I am overindulging in spending money on things. And it doesn't stop there. I worry. Not just about money and spending. I worry about anything and everything. It is all part of the same problem, I realized today. I am overindulging my very own thoughts. I am letting them consume me.
In the Bible, the image of "consuming" is often related to fire and judgment: "For the Lord your God is a consuming fire." When I consider my internal struggle with external things and circumstances, I realize that each subset of my overindulgence is rooted in judgment. Weight issues are fueled almost entirely by how I judge myself and others. I make judgments about others based on their material possessions: Their home, their car, their clothing and their toys. I judge a person's success or even their happiness by what they possess. My worrying is a result of my preoccupation with external events and people. And the worry is usually the result of poor judgment on my part; I misread, I miscalculate, and these fears take on a life of their own.
I know in my head but must teach my heart to accept these gifts without letting them destroy me. Food is a gift. Possessions are gifts. Thoughts, perceptions, and ability to reason are gifts. I was not created to consume, nor was I created to be consumed. This is my greatest challenge.
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| My summer read. My mid-July read, anyway. I haven't met a more realistic, more endearing main character since Sue Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees. Smithson Ide's journey from East Providence, Rhode Island to Los Angeles, California is at once epic and relatable. Ron McLarty's writing is deeply dark one chapter, feather light the next. True, stirring, seeking. And to think I picked it up for $5 at Sam's Club (simply because it had the words "memory" and "running" in the title, but I will get to that blog another day.) Alas, the bills piled up while we were gone and I have work to do tonight before I can finish my beloved new book. Finish it. You know that sad feeling of finishing a book so good it makes you breathe differently? Wherever you are Ron McLarty, I hope you are writing lots and lots more beautiful books.
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| When I was a little girl, I loved to be naked (Didn't we all?) My mother likes to recount tales of little Heather quietly slipping away unnoticed only to emerge minutes later, completely nude but for a dusting of baby powder. I'd race down the hallway, Grandpa Lilley said, leaving little white footprints in their green carpet. I once received a well-deserved spanking for streaking outside after my bath, amidst firm warnings from my mother: "If you step one foot outside that door, Heather..." In college, I lived in an all-girls' dorm on a substance-free hall. My dorm room was adjacent to the bathroom, and there were rarely any guys on our hall, so I admit with a tinge of pride that on warmer days when I didn't feel like dealing with my bathrobe, I sometimes took a quick peek both ways and streaked to the dormitory showers. I once got sidetracked while getting ready to shower, and my college roommate came in to find me dusting and tidying up our room in the nude. She was a little freaked, which was my first inkling as an adult that perhaps even in the company of other women, not everyone is as comfortable with nudity as I have always been. (Not quite as comfortable as my older brother, however, who ran the Naked Mile during his days at the University of Michigan).
I have spent enough time in the women's locker room at the Fitness Center to know that I am not alone. In that setting nearly everyone is comfortable naked, or at least willing to bare all briefly, during in the endorphin rush that follows a hearty workout. I prefer how I look naked, actually. (Perhaps I need better fitting clothes). So I did not think twice, upon entering Sholem Aquatic Center's women's locker room, about stripping off my chlorine-soaked swimsuit and showering off the chemicals and sunscreen before climbing in my car and heading home. I strip Anne down to her "bare nothings" (Mom's phrase) as well. No big deal. Until Liza and I went to see "Sex and the City" a couple weeks ago and I found myself surprisingly uncomfortable with the nudity in the movie. Granted, in the movie the nudity was in a sexually explicit context. But we were in a darkened room full of strangers, all women. Yet even though I don't know the actors personally and they were highly paid to bare everything by their own choice, I felt like seeing their nude frames on the big screen was some kind of intrusion on their privacy. Liza and I discussed it afterwards.
Liza, who has the best figure of any woman I know, revealed (so to speak) that she is not at all comfortable being naked, even in the women's locker room. She said that she would never take her suit off at Sholem, and that if she did she would hide behind the curtained showers and disallow even a small glimpse of her bare body. Hm. I thought back to the day I had seen Kim, with whom I sometimes sing on worship team. Anne and I were taking our usual shower after swimming, both in the buff. When I said goodbye to my friend from church, she averted her eyes. I suddenly felt a little guilty for feeling so free. Had I been inappropriate?
The very next day, keeping my own suit on while showering Annie naked, a little girl approached us. "She can't be naked in here," the 5-year-old informed me. "It's the rule. She's showing her privates." I thanked the little girl but ignored her heeding. Against the rules to be naked in a women's locker room? Surely not. Anne is an innocent: an undeveloped little girl with no knowledge of sexuality, I reasoned. But what about the people who would see her nude? Am I putting her in any danger by letting her shower naked?
And then a few days ago, I received a call from my baby brother (not the Naked Miler) who will officiate his best friends' wedding in August. He wanted me to proof-read his wedding speech. I reached for my copy of Mike Mason's illuminating The Mystery of Marriage, which my pastor used in preparing our wedding message. As I flipped through the pages looking for additional insights to offer my brother, I came across this passage:
It is not primarily because we get cold or wet that we must cover ourselves up. It was not forty below or blowing snow in Paradise! No, we dress because we sin, and even the finest clothing is like the striped suit of a jailbird, a sign and a reminder that man is an unholy fugitive, in hiding from God and from his own fellows. Whether it be in a nudist colony, at an orgy, in primitive society, or in the nursery, public nudity is only possible for those unconscious or aggressively heedless of their sinfulness. Only the godless and the immature go naked.
Ouch. Is my comfort in my own naked skin an indication that I am too comfortable with my flesh? With my sin? Or is it something much more pure than that? Is it possible I have learned to separate my sexuality and my flesh, in a literal sense? Can I glorify God by accepting the body He created for me, unashamed to stand before my peers in a redeemed form? Or am I careless and disrespectful to show myself in others' presence?
Modesty is a virtue I would like to instill in my daughter for her own protection. But I also want her to accept herself enough that she feels no shame whatsoever about how she is created and how she develops over time. I do realize that accepting one's naked body and displaying it are two different things. I do not go out of my way to show myself nude to others. Neither do I go to great lengths to hide my body in contexts that I deem appropriate. For now, I will keep the swimsuit on in Sholem's locker room, only because I have noticed that there are some mothers who cannot help but take their young sons through the ladies' room (I would not want to send my son alone into the men's locker room, either). I would prefer, however, to wrestle with matters related to the flesh on a spiritual level, and not become overwrought with questions regarding the shell that houses me. I'm thankful for my healthy body and for the strength of mind to recognize it as something not shameful but something powerful and lovely.
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| All this time I've thought it was a woman's genes, her exercise regimen, her diet, her ability to apply maquillage, her hair stylist, and her wardrobe that culminated in her level of attractiveness. Any combination of the above factors in reasonable quantities would result in a lovely lady. Turns out, it may also have something to do with her husband's profession. Like every other sunny day this week, we found ourselves trudging to the pool with cooler, sunscreen, splash bombs, and towels in hand, prepared not only to beat the heat but enjoy it. We ran into dozens of friends (it's a small town) including Anne's Sunday school teacher Charissa, who pointed to a young couple watching a small boy play at zero-depth and said, "I think that's them."
Our church voted in a new Associate Pastor last Sunday (I voted absentee so I could get Anne down for a nap and take her to the pool. It's all about the pool.) I wasn't thrilled about meeting anyone in my current condition. I am not one of those women who looks effortlessly pretty in nothing but a swimsuit and sunscreen. Effortless, yes. Pretty, no. But of course I was anxious to meet them, so I followed Charissa over and introduced myself. It struck me as I shook hands with tall, dark, slim Amy that this girl is very, very pretty. Not pretty "for a pastor's wife." Perhaps the prettiest girl there, in her tasteful two-piece and sunglasses. Later as I showered, a realization came over me: Are pastors wives not always lovely? I did a quick survey of all the leading ladies I could recall, mentally checking my theory: Char always looks and smells delightful. Lori hasn't aged in twenty years. Erica could model. Karen doesn't even have to try. Lois can't really be forty, can she? Patti's warm smile and youthful face. Kathy's sparkling eyes and curly hair. And now Amy. Could there be exceptions? Sure. But by and large, the pastors I know have married some very beautiful women. Few resemble Dana Carvey's rendition. It can't be that men of faith have a better selection than the average guy: They spent years in seminary where women tend to be outnumbered. Is it holiness? I don't think so. I'd see these women as pretty even if I saw them cussing in the parking lot at WalMart. Could it be God's way of saying "Thank you" to their husbands? "You won't likely earn six figures in this lifetime, but I'll give you a fantastic view!"
And while we're at the pool (because frankly when are we not at the pool?) a word about lifeguards: Why is it that I get a lump in my throat whenever I see those guys and girls in red sprinting at the edge of the pool, even when it's just a drill? Day after day, I see them perched up there with their whistles and water bottles, wondering how bored they must be, and when they get to pee, and if they call out rules in their sleep: "Walk on the deck, please. Walk! No Splashing! No Dunking! No Diving! Feet first! Get off of her!"
Last week I saw a small female lifeguard go head-to-head with an unruly teen. The teen sat out for a good thirty minutes and had to talk to the pool manager. Minutes later, I saw the same lifeguard blow her whistle, dive into the pool, and swim towards a little girl whose head had momentarily sunk beneath the water's surface. The lifeguard pulled her up, swam her to the edge, held her closely, and spoke reassuringly until the girl's mother arrived. I felt like crying. Yesterday my eyes welled up with SPF 30 as I recalled the scene. What an idiot- my eyes are burning because I am crying over lifeguards! I was glad I was wearing sunglasses.
As I discreetly wiped away the tears, I realized why I am so moved at the sight of these kids looking out for us. They are watching over us, keeping a constant vigil. They are ready to dive in at a moment's notice and rescue us, any one of us- even the unruly teenager. They can't relax or make small talk when their friends show up because they are continuously on the lookout, scanning the area to make sure everyone is safe and everyone follows the rules. They even give time-outs. They run like the wind when someone needs them. They remain vigilant so that the rest of us can enjoy some carefree summer fun. They are mothers. It's nice to know I'm not the only one looking out. It's a weight off my shoulders. And it's nice to be the one looked after, for a change.
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I regularly remind myself of the wisdom
in King Solomon's statement: “There is nothing new under the sun.”
Then surely I am not the only person to feel increasingly irritated
by all those little stickers that read: “Made in China.” Perhaps
it has worsened since I became a parent. I feel I am forever
scraping the little buggers off with my fingernail in some obsessive
effort to pretend I live in a smaller world.
What if, I amuse myself by asking, What
if we were to put little stickers on things that read “NOT
Made in China?” It would certainly save a great deal of time and
effort and require less stick-um. However, as I seriously consider
this appealing alternative, I have to admit that it may affect the
economy. Someone's economy. How many thousands of people are able
to work and provide for their families by the “Made in China”
sticker industry? This sensitivity on my part did serve to put my
irritation to rest for a short time.
Then I began to consider the
environment. Where do all those little stickers end up after we
scrape them off? In the trash, and eventually in a landfill. Yes,
they are small, but there are so goshdarn many of them!
Indeed, the “Made in China” stickers alone, if separated from
other refuse and grouped together in one locale could create landfill
after landfill! And now I am faced with the ever-perplexing debate
over which is more pressing, the economy or the environment.
Of course, I could just leave the
little stickers where they have been so diligently placed- All
over my stuff. I could change my own perspective, reminding
myself each time the tiny caption catches my eye, “Made in China,”
that I am supporting some distant economy. And further, if I leave
the tiny emblem where it is, I am not harming my own environment.
Some of you may be thinking, “Doesn't
she have better things to think about than the 'Made in China'
stickers?” The answer is: Sometimes. But by nature, those of us
who are mildly to wildly obsessive-compulsive spend hours and hours
in extra thinking time. Not all of those hours can be spent
thinking of things that really matter. I comfort myself in the
knowledge that thinking, as an activity on its own, is valid and
valuable, even if the thinking never leads to action. Thinking is
good practice. Some people should do it more often. So don't fault
yourself if you are an over-thinker, as I have thus demonstrated that
I am. Thinking is the only thing that gives me a shot at being an
original, not just some mass-produced trinket from another continent.
Happy, T?
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