explaining my life to strangers
September 09, 2007: Downloaded pattern for Scheherazade Stole.
November 30, 2007: Wollmeise Lace-Yarn in “Campari Orange” arrived.
March 31, 2008: After ten days work.
June 17, 2008: Blocking
I have to keep you in suspense for the final result because I was to busy to take a picture today. But I promise one soon.
Of course I thought I would have it all figured out by now. And I do have a job. A job I happen to like. But then, I always seem to get restless after a while. I have already written about how I feel like I’m pulled in several directions at once, how the things I like doing just don’t go together that well.
Which reminds me that I had promised you a post about the things I like. I have been thinking about it for weeks now but all I can come up with is “Raindrops on roses, and warm woolen mittens, …” (and I just found that I misquoted it, I’m horrible at remembering song lyrics) Every time I try to write a list of things I like I end up with something like this, and it feels totally arbitrary.
So. I’m almost 41 now, and I keep thinking about what to do with my life, where it’s headed, and I still don’t know. Music is important, I now know this, because without music I get depressive. Sometimes I also get depressive with music but without it I always do. I know that I want to sing more, and make up songs, and improvise, and that I want to perform again. I only don’t know how or where or when or with whom. And I find that it feels a bit pointless to hum to myself at home, and so I bought myself a new recording thingie that is sitting on my desk and gathers dust. (I actually recorded something and started to write a post about this at the end of, um, April. Well.)
Last year I had this feeling that I should become a tarot reader. I bought tons of books, and three more decks of tarot cards, bought a spiral notebook, and started learning the meaning of two tarot cards each day. For about a week or two. Because while I enjoy pulling cards and doing readings for people with the oracle cards that I have, I never can remember the meanings of the cards. I always have to look them up. And while I feel pretty good about drawing cards for people it then occurred to me that people might want to know about serious life-issues, and I didn’t feel up to the task. Also, learning while I go along might work for the things I usually teach and do but for this I felt that I needed a better foundation. I haven’t abandoned the thought, though, it’s just one of the things that is swirling around in my mind.
Then there’s the knitting. It has become quite important to me again over the past year (which you might have noticed), and so I started thinking along the lines of, “Maybe I should teach knitting classes.” or design knitting patterns again and see where that leads me. That’s my latest spleen, and so I have started drafting a plan for knitting classes, and have run into my old obstacle of not being able to promote myself. I just can’t do it. I have all these plans, and enthusiasm, and I know people would love the classes but when I put it all to paper it becomes stiff and hollow and brittle. My husband has been going over my draft to help me, and now it’s up to me again.
Then, the designing. As I have said before, having ideas is never the problem for me. (And I thank God for that.) As soon as I decided that I wanted to design something there were a few ideas popping up. I even bought yarn, and I have thought about them constantly. Now all I need is a couple of days to really do something. And, most important of all, I need some space in my head for that.
Just in case you’re wondering why I, all of a sudden, think that I can design knitting patterns, well, back in the eighties when I lived in a small town I pretty much made up all my own patterns. Not always successful but then, these days, I actually knit gauge swatches and such, and on top of that I’m totally willing to rip everything back until it looks like I want it to. The only thing I’m a bit nervous about is that in the eighties sweaters were just rectangles, and these days they are supposed to fit a bit more tightly. On the other hand, from what I see these days, baggy sweaters might be back again soon. And designing fitting sweaters only means doing a bit more math. Which, strangely enough, is not a problem, it only takes a bit more time.
I also would like to teach creativity, and work as a coach but I have this feeling that I need to grow a bit before doing that. The other thing I’d like to do is improvised music. So I’m planning to teach circle singing, and waiting for the opportunity to improvise with others.
Then there’s the writing. I like doing it but I still have to read my two NaNoWriMo-novels. (That still sounds weird, my two novels. Lately someone asked me what I had been doing, and when I told her “I have been writing more, there’s the blog, and I have written first drafts of two novels and a screen play.” it sounded really weird to me. But then, it’s true nonetheless. It won’t do me any good, though, until I do something with what I have.)
I know that this is pretty much the recurrent theme of my blog, my lack of focus on just one thing. So, I have decided that I’m unable to do just one thing, and go in all directions at once. Which is fine, only now all these things in my head keep canceling each other out. Where to start? I start each day with a plan to do one of the important things, like, “Today I’ll be working on my concept for knitting classes!” then procrastination happens, or housework, or blog reading, or exercise, or family, and soon it’s “I’ll do it on the weekend when I’ll be having more time.” (That one’s always good for a laugh.), and so the weeks go by one after the other.
So, this, of course, will be the weekend when I will be:
While I’m at it, I could also teach my son how to swim. Or something.
These are not really my plans for the weekend but then I might have taken on a bit more in my life than I can reasonably do. Do you know anybody who hasn’t? Which of the things should I drop? I know, the answer is housework but my husband doesn’t like doing it all alone. And I don’t blame him. So, any advice? I could quit blog-reading of course but that isn’t really an option, isn’t it?
First, thank you very much for your comments on my post about feeling fat. I responded to some of them, and found that maybe I should write a bit more because so many questions had come up. So, this post is about the things that worked for me in the past when attempting to change my eating habits and lose weight.
As for the question of the bathing suit I have to confess that I exaggerated for dramatic reasons, I actually own a bathing suit that fits me, and has done so through weight loss and gain for years. When I bought it in 1998 or so I weighed about 67 kilos and it fit me even in the first stages of pregnancy until I reached a weight of about 85 kilos. Right now, of course, I hope to be able to fit into my new bikini again though it will certainly be a bit tight this summer.
I have, as probably most women in the first world, a long history of weight gain and loss. I also am still suffering from an eating disorder, namely compulsive overeating, though I’m much better now and still haven’t given up on healing. In fact, that’s my word of the year for this year: healing.
I still believe that it is possible to just eat, and maintain a nice and healthy weight. I don’t believe in diets. They don’t work. I also don’t believe in any diet foods, in avoiding anything; now it’s carbs again, some years ago it was fat, and I’m just now too lazy to figure out which diet craze will have a comeback after the return of the Atkins diet (I know, it’s totally different nowadays, and it’s called low carb. Whatever.)
What I aspire is a life where food, and my looks, and the question of whether I still fit into my jeans aren’t that important. And I know that it can be done. My great role-model in this is Geneen Roth who spent deacdes on the diet-carousel, was anorexic at one point, and nowdays just eats and stays the same size.
Sadly, I’m not one of those people who read a book, get the idea, and then are changed forever. For me, everything I change has to be a practice. I stumble, I fall, I start over, I stumble, I do great, I fall,…
So, without making this into a mega-post, I just give you a list of the things I changed in the past, a list of things that worked.
To show you how much of a difference these tiny things make, and also the fact that I’m using my bike more often instead of the car and such, I have lost two kilos since the beginning of June. Without suffering, without battle, just like that. I know that you can’t do that always, I’m living proof for that, I’m the one who gained and gained over months despite knowing what to do.
What also helps me is realizing that ultimately it isn’t that important. I could just stay this size forever, and there’d be no harm in this. But also, my life doesn’t end because I don’t eat potato chips every day. There are more important things in life, much more important things, and that’s something I want my son to know not only because I say so but because he sees me living it.
Every month I’m writing a story as homework for my writing group. And then I post it here:
“You must be so happy!”, her mother exclaimed on the phone. “Must I?”, Elena wondered to herself. Since she knew better than to respond with “Why do you always tell me what to feel?”, she managed an almost convincing “Of course I am!” before she excused herself.
That part, the excuse, had become much easier these days. Interestingly you could have obligations by the dozen, or really valid reasons for something but it seemed that nothing was as valid as saying, “You know, with the baby…”
That seemed to be one of the few things that were easier now. Most things were much more difficult, of course. Before she hadn’t known that one could crave sleep so much. That being hungry could make her that aggressive, or how fiercely she’d protect her baby.
Her baby. It still seemed weird. Like a stranger yet familiar as her own limbs. Clearly a part of her and yet, totally different.
If only the baby would sleep. She looked at the pile of parenting books on her bedside table, next to a gigantic bottle of water, three cartons of nursing pads, and the book she was reading. Well, trying to read. Something not baby-related .
When, before her daughter was born, she had read that it took about eight hours a day to care for a baby, she had laughed inwardly. That couldn’t be true.
What the books didn’t say was that those fictional eight hours were spread out all through the day. Alternating twenty minutes of baby-care with ten minutes off. When she had read that babies slept about eighteen hours a day she didn’t know that she’d have a daughter who never slept more than twenty minutes at a time. At least it felt like she didn’t.
She thought of last night when Mark had carried the wailing infant through their apartment for three hours while she got to sleep with earplugs. That had been the best sleep she’d had in two weeks. Who knew how refreshing three hours of uninterrupted sleep could be? Or that one could be tired enough to doze off while holding a conversation just because the other person didn’t say anything for five seconds? And that one could be resilient enough to hold the baby, feed the baby, burp the baby, rock the baby, change the baby, carry the baby, and go without food, drink, or anything for ages?
That was something at least. Who would have thought she could do that? Despite the fact that she really considered trading the baby for a vacation. Alone. Only her, a comfortable bed, and room service.
Until she was separated from her, if only for an hour, and she missed her, and worried if Mark was treating her right, and then she knew she’d rather die than let anything happen to her.
Maybe that was what her mother meant by being happy? Though her mother didn’t seem capable of feelings that fierce or even remotely passionate. Maybe that first months really became all foggy after a few years and then you only remembered the moment when you held your newborn in your arms, marveling at it, this whole new life that was part of you and your loved one.
But then, that was another one of those lies. The “happiest day of your life”, that was wedding day, wasn’t it? Maybe all these people suffered from amnesia.
Elena remembered everything. The awkwardness of the ceremony, the fight they had the morning before, how everything went utterly chaotic, and how they were really glad when that day was over.
Maybe other people meant something different by “happy”. Maybe those people lived by making up a story in their head of how it should have been, and clung to that for the rest of their lives.
Elena stopped walking through the apartment because little Anna had finally fallen asleep in the sling. She sat down, the baby heavy on her, pulling at the fabric on her shoulders. She had her book right here, next to her favorite chair, tea at the ready, still warm in the thermos. She put up her feet that hurt after walking for almost an hour, inhaled that sweet baby smell, felt the warmth of the sun on her legs, and took a sip of tea, careful not to spill anything on her daughter.
“This is happiness”, she thought, “this moment. Soon I’ll feel uncomfortable again, something will be wrong, but now, this minute, I’m happy.”
She opened her book, looked for where she had stopped reading the night before, and dozed off.
Time for the Just Post Roundtables again. As every month Mad, Jen, and me have gathered a wide variety of posts about social justice.
According to a study by unicef countries like Denmark and Finnland have the lowest levels of child poverty among the rich countries, and the United States have the highest. What is so alarming about my own country here is that there are more and more people getting poor, especially children, while the rich get richer and richer. The most children in poverty live in either immigrant families or with single parents.
The article I have linked to in the paragraph above was written in 2005. Since then the whole thing has become worse instead of better. It’s a shame that in one of the richest countries in the world there are 1.5 million children living in poverty, almost ten percent of all children. Of single parent families forty percent live in poverty.
In the US, by the way, that number is 20%. Every fifth child lives in poverty. And being poor makes it much harder to be healthy, successful, and employed.
If you want to know more about it, here’s a link to the unicef report from 2005 as a pdf-download: Child Poverty in Rich Countries.
And now the rest of the table:
As always thank you very much for writing, for pointing us to other’s posts, and for reading. And please, go over to Mad and Jen as well to see what they have to say.
Some days ago when grocery shopping I saw a story in a magazine about “dressing slim” with before and after pictures. The magazine almost went into my grocery cart on itself. Then I thought again. Do I really want to dress so that I look slimmer? Or do I really want to be slimmer. Well, you know the answer, both of course.
I didn’t buy the magazine but I thought about “feeling fat” again. Feeling fat is not to be confused with being fat though when you are fat you have a higher probability of feeling fat too. And these past weeks I have felt especially fat. One reason for this is that I gained about 9 kilos between last July and this May. Last summer I bought myself I nice new bikini that was just a little bit too small because I was sure I would lose still more weight. Gaining that much makes me feel like a loser. Like my whole life is out of control; which in a way it is.
When I tell people that I gained weight (I had to do that quite a bit when I visited my parents and relatives) they usually ask, “And why did you gain that weight?” Well, I’d say I ate too much. And drank too much beer. And moved less. If I know somebody really well I tell them that I was depressed for months. But then I’m not sure whether I get depressed because I’m gaining weight or gain weight because I’m depressed. Nonetheless the two are related in some way.
I feel even worse because I was doing so well. I had been losing weight, and changing my old unhealthy and unconscious habits for two years, and I lost about 14 kilos. Not by dieting but by changing habits one at a time, doing small things. This wasn’t a speedy process. On average I lost about 300 grams a month. So I thought at least I’d keep it off. Turns out that when I revert to eating just a bit too much for every meal, too many snacks, sugar again, and about two beers a day I gain back a kilo a month.
It’s not as if I were asleep for months and then suddenly woke up to find myself much heavier than before, every month, every week, every single day of that months I vowed to change back, not to drink beer, not to eat my son’s candy, or five liverwurst sandwiches for dinner. But then I felt hungry all the time, I felt, well, depressed, and a part of me thought that nothing I’d do would make a difference and so I just ate more this once, and drank that beer “just today”, and that box of crackers that hardly makes a difference, and so on and on, day after day.
That’s one of my main problems in life, I see clearly what I am doing, and it doesn’t fit the way I intend to live and then I’m doing it anyway. In part it’s that kind of stubbornness that makes me stay up because my husband reminded me that it’s getting late. The part of me that didn’t clean my room because my mother said so even thought I could barely stand the mess myself.
If you look under the category changing habits in my left sidebar (or click on the link), and then go back to 2006 you’ll find quite a few posts about losing weight and such. I really thought I had it. Once and for all, I know how to do this and I was sure I’d never get fat again. The interesting thing is that obviously I chose to go back to my old unconscious eating patterns, and for months and monthsat a time without changing back. I just gave up.
Of course the next thing I think is that this just doesn’t work. Like one of my aunts said, “For some people it’s just genetics. They can’t help it.” Sometimes I dream of having a magic pill that will let the pounds melt from me (over night and without a mess of course), and then I’ll live at 64 or maybe 65 kilos, wearing a size 6 or 8 for ever. But I doubt that will happen and it’s no use to wait for it.
I’d love to be one of those people who read the right book, change their eating habits and that’s it. Forever. For me, obviously, I have to practice new habits for years and years and years and years, and then I still can’t be sure of them. This is very frustrating. But then I thought to myself I have two choices here: I can either give up and get fatter and fatter until I die, or I can start over again. And over. And over. And over. Every single day, every single meal, every single bite.
While I’m writing this now, the worst seems to be over. I already lost a kilo, I’m back to not eating sugar much, and alcohol is restricted to weekends (with a very broad definition of weekends, like, three days a week). I’m also back to exercise, doing small things like riding the bike to the grocery store instead of taking the car, and a walk every other day.
I very much hope that I can keep myself on track and then some time in the future (maybe next year) I’ll be back to where I was last year. And I want to do this without obsessing about it, just behaving like a slim person. Because “feeling fat”, like I said before, is not about the size of your body, it is short for “how I feel about myself as a person”, or for self worth.
Still. If you were in my place, would you sew yourself a new summer dress? Would you buy yourself a new, bigger, bathing suit? I know I’m not the only one in this place.