Word to Your Mother

It seems I'm destined to have all the biggest, life changing events in my life happen around a holiday.  I lost my first pregnancy on St. Patrick's Day back in 2000.  Over Christmas that same year I had my first son, Ethan.  And a year and a half later I spent Mother's Day weekend in the hospital recovering from my my youngest son's birth.  Eleven years later and I am still splitting that weekend with my son.

This week has been a bear.  I've been behind on work, getting slammed with "to-do" lists and trying to get everything done in time for Sean's birthday.  I ran errands, I bought and wrapped all the presents and I even made him a special Minecraft birthday cake that literally took me all day and then some.  Coincidentally he also picked this week to become the biggest almost-eleven year old turd you've ever seen.  I'm pretty sure I threatened to cancel his birthday at least three times.  Of course I didn't cancel it.  He's my baby and I would do anything for either of my boys (except make a Minecraft cake ever again).  But I'll be damned if I can't wait till they figure out the wisdom in behaving before an upcoming birthday.  Or Christmas.  Or Mother's Day.

Of course you know that I was an angel as a child, right?  That I was so well behaved as to never stress my mother out?  That I brought only joy and laughter and fulfillment to her life?  Yeah, not so much.  I'm assuming that what I am experiencing with my own children can only be the ultimate act of motherly revenge:  Childhood Karma.  But at least I was cute, right?  How could you not love me?

When I was a toddler I was the first to invent the "trust fall".  And by trust fall I mean falling stiff as a board on to my face every time I was told no.  Every time.  My mom would just ignore my tantrum and step right over me and go about her business.  I guess maybe she got concerned the time I finally lifted my head to look up at her and she saw blood streaming down my face from my nose.  I know I'd be concerned - blood is incredibly hard to get out of the carpet!

As I got a little older she developed to new tactic every time I got angry with her or didn't get my way.  She'd calmly look at me and begin to sing with her sweet, soothing voice.  It's a song that, as an adult, I logically realize is one of Joe Cocker's best songs displaying such beautiful intimacy.  But still to this day every time I hear You Are So Beautiful I have an immediate visceral and negative reaction akin to shock therapy.  I can't listen to it.  I just can't.

If you recall from a previous post about my childhood vulnerabilities my mother is quite young.  She still jokes that she and I will eventually be the same age.  It won't really matter when I'm 75 and she's 91 as long as we have someone to wipe our asses, right?  Since she was so young and I was born before the age of "political correctness" she maybe hasn't always said the most motherly things.  I still laugh every time I think of her trying to correct my speech impediment, though.  She swears that it never happened but I'm quite certain my five year old self did NOT make this up.  It was the Summer before I was to start kindergarten and I couldn't say my R's.  She tried to help me.  "Say rrrrrrrrabbit."  "rrrrrrrrrrrrrrWabbit."  "Say Rrrrrrrrrrrobert." "RrrrrrrrrrWobert."  This went on and on till one day, as I stood next to her in the laundry room watching her pull clothes out of the dryer and I tried to say my R's she told me if I didn't figure out how to say them correctly before kindergarten started I would have to ride the short bus to school.  I had it figured out in a week.

Since she was so young we were often more like friends than mother/daughter.  At least in my eyes. Until I hit my teenage years of course.  She was trying to lay down the law with me one day and I wasn't having any of it.  I was a pretty good kid that got my way most of the time because I didn't cause any trouble (other than with my mouth) but I must have done something to trigger her parental side that day.  When she was done talking I held up my chin, looked her straight in the eye and said, "Why are you trying to be a mom now after all these years?"  Honestly, I knew the second those words left my mouth that I wanted them back.  If only I could grab them and shove them back in.  The look on her face confirmed this, of course, but I kept my pride, tossed my hair and turned to walk away from her.  That was my mistake.  If ever you should think of saying something like that to your mother don't turn your back, whatever you do.  Back away slowly and calmly, never forgetting your mother's ninja moves.  She hauled up her foot and kicked me right in the ass, Chuck Norris style, as I walked away.  God, I deserved it.

I tried unsuccessfully for years to get her to pay me for good grades. "Why should I pay you for something you care more about than me?"   When I wanted to get my ears double pierced she said, "Absolutely not!" (And then she went and got a tattoo years and years later.)  As a single mom she worked hard all day just to come home to me where I would inevitably tell her how bored I was and that she should take me somewhere.  I got this: "I'm not your cruise director."  I'm still a little upset that I'm unable to use this one on my own Love Boat-deprived children.  I can, however, use this oldie but goody as much as I like for my own amusement.

I have forgiven her for the first mullet I ever got.  And for making me do my impersonations of Miss Piggy's karate chop or Clyde, the orangutan from Every Which Way But Loose, for her friends.  And for those vacation pictures taken of me in said mullet, a striped tube top and white culottes.

My mother is one of the smartest, funniest women I know.  She's rarely, if ever, wrong. She's my hero for raising me on her own and with her sanity mostly intact, even.  She's also one of my best friends.  I still do everything she tells me to, whether it's a career choice or a book club selection.  If she told me to do it must be right.

As I think about my own children on this Mother's Day weekend I realize they aren't perfect.  But they are mine and they are beautiful.  They are smart and strong, full of humor and sass and energy.  I would do anything for them in the world, including give my own life, because they are worthy of being here just as they are.  I love them with my whole entire being, even on those days that I struggle with liking them a whole lot.  And knowing how I feel about them gives me a glimpse of how I'm sure my mother feels about me.  Of how all mothers feel about their children.

So on this Mother's Day, as you think about how much your mother and your children are worthy of your love, perhaps realize that you need that same amount of love from yourself.  Remember how worthy YOU are, despite whatever imperfections you may have. After all, your mother is never wrong.

 I love you, mom.

Exit the Warrior, Today's Tom Sawyer

It's been almost 10 months since I taught my last group fitness class.  My last class was my Wednesday night spin class - my one true fitness love.  I didn't have a bike that night because class was full (with decorated bikes and balloons no less) but I got just as much out of spending time with the people in my class that night as I would have had I worked out, except I didn't even have to wear a sports bra.

Thinking about my regulars, a couple in particular, helped me "get back on the horse", so to speak, this week.  8 weeks without getting on a spin bike.  I think that's the longest I've gone in 5 years.  I've missed that bike more than I realized and I'm glad I'm getting back to it. However, my crotch is not happy about the reunion.  'Taint happy at all. 

I remember my first spin class like it was yesterday.  I had been working my way up to surviving 45-50 minutes on a bike after being humbled by my personal trainer.  He had put me on a spin bike, cranked the resistance and proceeded to kick my ass.  I wanted to die about 2 minutes in.  I was so mad - I thought after losing 70 lbs on my own I should be able to handle getting on a bike.  I took that anger and did 10 minutes the next day.  Then 15.  Then 20 and so on.  I finally got the balls to show up to class which was completely out of my comfort zone.  Working out with a group?  Talking to people?  Being the only fat girl in a group fitness studio?  Sweating AND being social?  What? (Ok, so anyone who has seen me dancing knows that I'm no stranger to that one.)

I showed up for class and didn't really speak to anyone at first.  The instructor at the time was one of those crazy ladies that remembers half way through class that, oh, there are other people in the room with her and they, in fact, do not have the same death wish that she has.  Super fit, make up on, zero body fat - uber intimidating for someone only half-way through her journey.

I parked my bike next to a very friendly guy named Mike.  It was obvious that he and his wife, Kim, had been attending class for awhile.  They knew what they were doing and were comfortable enough to give the instructor shit - a true mark of feeling at home at the gym.  Mike was very friendly to me without seeming obnoxiously experienced - in fact he was much nicer and more welcoming than the instructor.  I don't know that I would have gone back to class if it wasn't for Mike, let alone became an instructor. 

In the coming months we started a major battle of WWIII proportions.  The fan.  You see, I'm a sweaty bastard.  No way around it.  I was embarrassed by just how sweaty I really was.  I asked my trainer once if I was his sweatiest client.  He smiled and started to give me what I thought was going to be a charming and polite answer to make me feel better.  Instead he said, "No, you're my 2nd sweatiest client.  See Big John over there?  He's the sweatiest."  The only way to combat sweaty-ness of Big John proportions was to slide my bike under one of the only two fans in the whole studio, the one that actually worked well.  Turns out, Mike liked a good fan as well.  It was a race to see who could get under it first.  Sometimes we'd pull into the parking lot at the same time and eye each other from a few stalls away and I could swear I heard the theme song from Clint Eastwood's "Man with No Name" trilogy.  Game on, Mike.  Game on.

Mike did little odd jobs around the gym all the time.  Hung stuff. Fixed bikes. Drilled things.  Too my knowledge he was never compensated.  This is just who he was.  He and Kim were why small gyms are successful.  It's about family and friends and community and the people that care about that small business.

Almost a year to the date from the first time I got on a spin bike I was certified to teach.  On the other side of the room facing the members.  Where there was no fan.  You win, Mike.

I was not the best group fitness instructor there ever was.  Not by half.  I didn't look like an instructor (which I was reminded of by a few disbelieving new members when they showed up to my class for the first time and took a gander at me).  And if you ask me to keep any 4, 8 or 16 count you are out of luck.  Just ask my kickboxing regulars about my warm-ups.  My method when I taught and when I trained was to make sure everyone was having fun.  Because it's not so bad to get your ass kicked if you're having fun, in my opinion.  I did this by making inappropriate jokes, by telling stories about my boys and by getting to know my class regulars really well.  Sometimes too well.  Professional boundaries are not my strong suit and your group fitness instructor should probably not be meeting you for happy hour or ladies nights or dinner out.  She should probably also not host a Pure Romance party and invite all gym members while she is a manager. But I did. Because these were my extended family.  My naughty, dirty extended family. 

The other way I tried to make class fun was by putting a lot of time and energy into my music.  If I was known for anything as an instructor it was probably my music.  I had themes.  I had remixes.  I had genres.  And, by God, I had 8 1/2 minutes of Beyonce - their favorite.  Every song was carefully chosen and choreographed to what I had planned.  You may even say I was anal retentive about it.  I won't argue with you.

If you'd been attending my class long enough you may even have earned a special song by request.  I played a Justin Bieber song once for Tracy that left me watching the studio door, terrified someone in the main gym could hear it.  Christ, I think I even played the Electric Slide for Tracy once as a warm-up.  And let's not forget the time I tried to use Bon Iver in class for Karen.  Talk about a challenge.  Guess what we stretched to?

Mike heckled my music all the time.  I teased him about secretly loving Beyonce and Rihanna and said I would gladly burn him some cds but he was a classic rock guy through and through.  His favorite was Rush.  I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to use Tom Sawyer in class for him but when all else fails in spin class, what do you do?  Seated climb.  He probably didn't realize it but I actually have 4 or 5 spin playlists created with him in mind.  He was always there, every Monday, and he deserved to get a break from girly pop music once in awhile.

When I taught spin class I would always remind people that this was their class and they had choices to accommodate their needs or fitness levels.  I reminded them of their options repeatedly and every time I said the word "options" I got a huge "Whooo-hooo!" from Mike, to whom I promptly told the options didn't apply.   Every single time, without fail.  I don't think he missed it one time.

A year ago Mike was diagnosed with cancer.  Way, way too young for that shit.  They began aggressively treating his cancer and because of that he took a leave of absence from the gym.  Every time I said the word "options" Kim was right there to take up the slack.  "Whooo-hooo!"  It made me smile every time.

I had the pleasure of having Mike come back to take a few more classes when he was feeling good enough before I quit the gym.  Mike wasn't there often after being diagnosed but when he was there it was because he wanted to get back to his routine.  He certainly wasn't trying to lose weight.  He was there because that was what you did on Monday at 4:30pm.  He did it because it was good for him.  He did it for the love of it. (Ok, so maybe I exaggerate his love for my classes but something brought him back.)  Coming back to spin class while undergoing treatment for a very aggressive kind of cancer?  That's badass.  And if he held back I couldn't tell.  Mike was a warrior.

I've spent a lot of the last 10 months recovering emotionally from my resignation at the gym.  I've been hurt and angry.  I felt used and unappreciated.  I felt unrewarded by management for all the hard work, heart and soul that I put in there and I've ultimately felt forgotten by those who said they would always be there for me even though we no longer worked together.  Sometimes I have felt that I wasted 4 years of my life and my energy to have it wind up so thankless.  What I have forgotten is that I was already rewarded ten-fold for the work I did there and the relationships I built.  It was not appreciation from management that was my compensation.  I was rewarded each and every time a member decided to spend an hour of their time with me.  You know they had options (whoo-hoo!) and they still showed up for my class.  They appreciated what I gave to them and they had no idea that what they were giving to me was of much greater importance that the sweaty butt crack I gave them.

I am privileged to have known each and every person who attended one of my classes and blessed me with their time.  I want to make sure they know how much it meant to me to see their faces every week, knowing that even when I didn't feel like going to work I would be so glad I was there by the time class ended.  I want to say thank you for what they gave to me before I don't have a chance to say it again.  Thank you.

Mike passed away today in his home surrounded by his family.  This world has lost one of the nicest men I have ever met in my life and the only consolation that I can see is that he's left behind two young men who are sure to follow in his footsteps of kindness.  Please save any condolences you may have for me and instead send out as much love and peace to Mike's wife, Kim, and their two sons, Josh and Tyler.  Their loss is great.

This song is for you, Mike.  The fan is yours.  Fly By Night, my friend.

Bitch Flap

Tomorrow is my 6 week post-op mark.  Time to celebrate.  Time to move on and get back to a normal, restriction-free life.  Time to feel super sexy and wear itty-bitty drawers.

Yeah, not so much.  I've got so far to go it's not even funny.  I knew this was going to be a tough surgery to recover from and I was prepared for it.  Or so I thought.  I totally underestimated how much it would impact me physically and emotionally.

So here's a brief update.  I've been drain free for 3 weeks and aside from a brief trip to the ER to rule out a blood clot in my leg I have had no complications.  My incision is pretty much all sealed up aside from about an inch worth of scab (pretty amazing considering my incision is 28" long) and I am getting by with just occasional Tylenol.  I'm still fairly swollen, especially at the end of the day, and my belly button still looks like I have a small bald man trapped in my stomach but the change is already pretty dramatic.  I'm starting to wear real clothes again, work more, move more and get out of the house more.  All good things, right?

So why am I such a hot mess still?  I'm struggling to put it into words.  I tried to explain the problems I was having and the major body issues I was struggling with to a friend the other night and she didn't get it. "But your stomach is flat now.  What's the problem?" I've only told a few people how I've been feeling and most think I'm absolutely nuts.  I'm going to try and do my best to explain because I think it's relevant to everything I've been working on to date.  But if you, too, think I'm off my rocker you may want to keep that tidbit to yourself.  I'm full up on disapproval right now.

Let's start with my appearance.  I've literally spent almost all of the 6 weeks in huge sweat pants, oversize baggy shirts, no make-up, tweezer-free and frizzy, unkempt hair mode .  You know, the natural look.

I had to wear a binder 24/7 around my mid-section for the first 3 weeks and then I graduated to compression shapewear like Spanx.  My worst fashion nightmare was realized when I had to go into a dressing room and attempt to stuff myself into and then peel myself out of high waisted girdle after girdle trying to find something that didn't make me want to cry and wasn't going to suffocate me, knowing whatever I picked I would have to wear 24 hours a day.  I was sweating and in pain and exhausted and literally went home to lie down after.  In the car ride home I just shook my head and said, "And can you believe I used to be a group fitness instructor?"  Spanx totally counts as a workout, right?

I went from working out 5-6 days a week to sweating when trying on Spanx or napping after a shower?  The fatigue was something I really underestimated.  I'm still struggling with it but it's getting better.  The worst part of it, though, is not having the exercise I'm used to to keep my head straight.  I felt like I was getting somewhere with this body gratitude stuff.  Two steps forward, five steps back.

Here's a tiny glimpse in to the last 6 weeks (ask my husband):

"Oh my God.  She took away all my curves.  I'm not curvy anymore.  Do I still look like I have hips? I look like I should be in the Texas Chainsaw movie with this scar. My legs look huge now.  I look like a freak.  Everywhere I go people will know I have had surgery because my stomach is flat and my legs are a ginormous.  I don't even look normal in pants. They fit my thighs but now the crotch is empty.  I have saggy crotch.  No one likes saggy crotch.  I could fit a whole penis in there now.  Seriously - do I still look curvy?"

Side note - in the midst of all this crazy a friend of mine posted a picture on his Facebook page that I took exception to.  He thought it was hilarious.  I told him it was asshole-ish.  This is the picture, except it had the caption, "Wingman of the Year".

I considered ignoring it but I really do like the guy enough to not want him to look like an asshole because I don't think he is one.  When he asked what my problem was with it and I told him it was obvious it was just one big fat joke he promptly blocked me from seeing anything on his page but not before I saw him call me a bitch to someone else.

Could I have lost my sense of humor during all this recovery time?  Perhaps.  Might I be over-sensitive because of my current battle with body issues?  It's definitely a possibility.  But I'm also a straight shooter (and he knows this and has appreciated it in the past) who has spent decades battling weight and years working with people battling their own weight issues.  And let's not forget that very early in this blog I swore I would always call a person out on a fat joke. Humorless bitch?  I take great offense to the humorless part.

You know what is funny?  I'm having what I've decided to call "Phantom Flap" issues. (Prior to surgery my son asked me, "What are you having surgery for again?  Oh yeah, you're having your flap removed.")  If you have ever had much of a belly you know the horrific moment when you feel your underwear slip down underneath your "flap" and you realize you'll have to find a private moment to try and excavate them from their depths.  Assuming you can still find them.  So I tell my friend (the same one mentioned previously who thinks I'm nuts) that I keep thinking I feel my underwear slip down below my flap and then I realize I have no flap and she text me a couple days later saying, "I've pulled my drawers out from my under my flap at least 30 times today and I've thought of you each time and cursed your name".  I almost spit my coffee on my phone.  I adore my friends.  Except for the asshole-ish ones.

I'm not writing this blog to get you to feel bad for me.  I know I asked for this and I should have known what I was getting into.  I'm writing to once again remind you (and myself) that the answer to feeling good about yourself and finding self-worth is not external.  Sure, those things help but they don't fix you.  I wasn't looking for this surgery to fix my self-worth issues at all.  I'm smarter than that and having been through a large weight loss and a different post-operative recovery I already knew this was a fact.  I guess I just didn't expect it to make me feel worse than before.  I did not anticipate going backwards.

Another good friend sent me an article called "What Losing 180 Pounds Really Does to Your Body - & Your Mind" by Jen Larsen that resonated with her and it made so much sense to me as well.  I did not have weight loss surgery but I actually sympathize greatly with the topic. (So much so I already bought her book and started it.)  I get her loss of "sense of self" and "sense of proportion".  One quote that resonated with me was this: "I thought my body was wrong when I was obese; I thought my body was wrong when I was thin past the point of health."  Granted, I'm no where near thin but just as I battled obsessive self-scrutiny when I lost weight the first time, I find myself doing it again now that I once more have changed my body into something unrecognizable to me.  I'm out of my normal routine, still trying to find myself at home in my own body with all the physical changes, not able to combat stress with exercise and I can't remember the last time I felt pretty.  Interestingly enough, I wasn't even able to use food as self-medication either.  I'm not sure if it was the pain medication or the exhaustion or the compression-wear but I did not have a normal appetite for quite awhile.  Definitely a blessing that I wasn't over-eating for stress relief but I wasn't doing anything else for relief either.  I spent a lot of time alone in my room inside my head.  NOT a good place to be.  Or worse yet, standing in front of a mirror magnifying every flaw I have in order not to stare directly at that scabby place on my body where 9 lbs of my own flesh used to be.

I probably still haven't explained this right or I've come off sounding like a self-absorbed asshat.  All I know is that I've gone backwards.  I've been battling feelings of depression, anxiety, unworthiness and they are all related to me not recognizing myself anymore and not feeling anywhere close to pretty.  My surgeon said this would be a doozy of a surgery.  Doozy, indeed.

On the "pretty" note I ran across this video and it hit home with me.  I wouldn't exactly say that poetry slamming is my thing but this is powerful.  And no matter how many times I watch it the last 60 seconds or so get me every time. (Warming - there's an F-bomb dropped at the end so be careful at work.)

 I sincerely hope you aren't reading my blog because you think I have the answers.  Clearly I don't.  But I'm looking for progress constantly and I want to share my experiences along the way with as much honesty as possible.  And this is where I'm at right now.  Surgery or no surgery, I still have so much work to do if a period of 6 weeks is enough to knock my self-worth back to square one.

Jen Larsen said "don't love yourself even though you're not perfect - love yourself because you have a body and it's worth loving and it is perfect."  So back to the drawing board for me.  I need to start practicing body gratitude again so you may see that pop up on my Facebook page.  Today I am grateful for my body's amazing ability to heal after I've abused it so egregiously.  I need to start moving every day again and I need to write more often.  I've got to get back to the work of finding my own worth again.  6 weeks is enough of a hiatus.

And I'm going to be doing it all over again but this time in itty-bitty drawers.  I may be a hot mess but that part worked out just fine.

Help Wanted

I got dressed all by myself today.  Even my underpants.  In my head I was totally hearing the jingle from the Pull-Ups commercial: "I'm a big kid now!"

For the past two and a half weeks since my surgery I have dealing with various degrees of helplessness.  Those first few days the only thing I could do by myself was go to the bathroom and trust me when I tell you I would have gladly paid someone to do it for me.  I couldn't get in and out of bed without help.  I couldn't get dressed.  I couldn't even make myself food.

I could also talk about how much I've battled with my mind over feelings of being unattractive, being useless, being replaceable and unnecessary but I probably won't much. Not today. There's still a part of me that worries what others will think about my decision to have this surgery and since it was elective it's hard to rationalize the feelings I've had.  I can't really feel sorry for myself if I asked for this, right?  If you've ever recovered from major surgery you know there is a pretty standard post-op depression that hits you regardless of whether the surgery was medically necessary or elective.  So in that regard I would say I'm nothing if not text book.

Today I have been thinking about the art of asking for help.  I'm horrible at it.  Down right awful.  It doesn't matter if it's emotional, physical or financial help that I need - the chances of me asking for it are slim to absolutely none.  I'd like to think that's the case because I'm severely independent.  And maybe because I'm amazingly tough and resilient.  A badass even.  Help schmelp.  I got this.

I don't like to ask for help because I don't want to owe anybody anything.  And because if I ask for help it means I wasn't good enough or perfect enough to take care of it myself.  And frankly, doing it all myself ensures that it will get done the way I'm used to and I don't have to step out of my little perfectionist comfort zone (read: defense mechanism) and be open to anyone else's ideas.  Here's is where being an over-achiever really shows it's down side.  Because you just simply can't always do it all.

Asking for help, needing someone, unable to do it all on my own - this is my vulnerability nightmare.

Enter me, buck ass naked, dripping wet from my first post-op shower, sliced open from hip to hip and three drainage tubes ends hanging from a makeshift necklace so they don't rip from my body and still bleeding and oozing from places.  I can't dry myself.  I can't dress myself.  And God forbid I drop those clean underpants on the floor before I manage to get them on.  Three feet never seemed so grand a distance until you can't bend over to pick something up. Trust me. I spent a couple of minutes staring at them once, calculating the acrobatics it would take to get them off the floor, before I called for help.  I was beaten by the underpants.  The big, giant, granny panty, cheap Wal-Marty underpants I bought just for this recovery.  You win high waisted briefs.  You win.

You really can't feel more vulnerable than that.  Even so, when you've been married as long as I have you learn to accept help from your spouse a little more easily than from others.  He's been a trooper these past couple of weeks and I'm eternally grateful.  This has been a messy, difficult and altogether unsexy recovery and he's put up with all of it without complaint.

The bigger problem lies with letting others help.  I have had numerous texts and calls and messages asking, "Do you need anything? Can I bring you anything? Can I make a meal?".

Funny enough, I know there's no better feeling than to know you have helped someone. "What can I do to help?" is always the first thing out of my mouth when something happens to someone I care about.  More often then not I frantically race to organize a meal train for the family of a friend who just had emergency surgery or raise some money or supplies for an employee who's home burned down or flowers for a friend who just lost her baby.  But this isn't for selfless reasons.  It's totally selfish in that it calms that "Oh my God, I have to do something to help" feeling that makes me feel so useless.  Nothing cures a feeling of uselessness than organizing a meal train.  I promise.

Which reminds me that a friend offered to organize a meal train for my family after learning of my upcoming surgery.  I declined.  How could I accept a meal train for an elective cosmetic surgery?  I mean, the nerve of people wanting to help and wanting to feel better for having done so?  Guess who spent 9 hours in the kitchen making 18 freezer meals for her family rather than asking for help?

What does it say about me that I don't want others to also be comforted by being helpful just as I have been comforted?  I can say it's a pride issue but I'd be lying.  It's actually more about fear.  I'm afraid to let others in and to need them because in the needing I'm vulnerable to being hurt again by those that I need most.  Simple as that.  And if I refuse to ask for help when I need it most does it change the meaning behind the help that I give to others?  I'm starting to think maybe it does.

This morning I listened to a TED talk from this years conference by musician Amanda Palmer on the subject of The Art of Asking.  She spoke of her experience turning her music over to the public for free and asking for help in the way of crowd funding instead of relying on her unsupportive record label. She ended up succeeding with the biggest music crowd funding project to date.  When asked how she was able to make people pay for her music she said, "The real answer is I didn't make them. I asked them. And through the very act of asking people I connected with them. And when you connect with people, people want to help you."

If you have read my past blogs you know that I am working very hard to deal with feelings of shame and unworthiness.  And you also know I've learned that connection with others and garnering empathy is the first way to defeating shame.  The only way to do those things is to be vulnerable.  For me, today, that means asking for help. (See - I'm still on topic - just had to go round the outside for a bit to find my way back to it.)

It doesn't matter if you are battling depression, illness or financial troubles.  You could be feeling overwhelmed with your work and not sure how to delegate.  You may be feeling like a failure as a parent because you just can't do it all.  Or you may be struggling to do something as simple as dry yourself off after a shower.  It doesn't matter how easy or difficult the task if it feels like you can't do it alone. Relying solely on yourself and never asking for help is most certainly the quickest path to feeling like a failure when you don't succeed. Lena Horne once said, "It's not the load that breaks you down; it's the way you carry it". Maybe that load won't feel so difficult if you let someone else carry the heavy end for a bit.

The point is - ask for help.  Let those that love you in so that they can feel useful.  It's a form of generosity to allow them to do so and feel good knowing they made a difference.  You'll be happy to know I've accepted several meals for my family.  And the help I've cherished the most is that of my friends and family who have just offered to visit and spend some time with me during my recovery.  What a boon to my spirit. Thank you so much.

Some may say that asking for help is a blow to their pride. I would argue that asking for help actually builds your pride rather than detracts from it.  It makes you stronger. You may feel weak at first but, with the help of someone that loves you, in no time you will be strong enough to put your underwear on all by yourself like a big kid.  And that's something to be proud of.

American Idols

I'm in a foul mood today.  Horrible.  The kind that makes everyone around me back away slowly.  I've got tons of stuff to get accomplished in the next 6 days before I'm on house arrest after my surgery and, in true Cassidy fashion, I'm freaking out.  This is usually how I roll: Cassidy gets stressed.  Cassidy starts planning everything within a millisecond. Cassidy gets overwhelmed. Cassidy freaks out and thinks it all won't get done.  Cassidy manages to pull through with flying colors.  I'm at the "freak out" stage.  It's just my method.  Leave it alone - it works.

I also may or may not be suffering from the worst case of PMS known to womankind but if I were you I wouldn't suggest that may be contributing to my mood.  At least don't suggest it to my face.

My current attitude is also set off by some shit that went down post-Grammy Awards.  I shouldn't have been surprised.  I don't know why I was- it's the same old same old.  But I got all kinds of pissed off when I listened to this clip from Fox News regarding two powerful awarding-winning musicians.  Over 4 minutes of air time was devoted to discussing the weight of Adele and Kelly Clarkson as they appeared on the live television show.  Jesus H. Christ.  This again?

In the clip a guest nutritionist explains that these two ultra-successful women are doing the American public a disservice by staying fat.  Who knows?  Maybe we'll idolize them and decide we can stay overweight just like them.  How dare they set themselves up as role models for the rest of us at their current size?  The fucking nerve!!

Despite my absolute horror that Fox News would even entertain this topic, I almost liked the reporter for giving this woman some flack during the interview.  That was until he called Adele the "New Mama Cass". Oh hell no, you did not!  First, Cass Elliot was a brilliant musician who was taken from us before her time and any current vocalist should be flattered to be compared to her.  But that was not the context here.  He was insinuating that Adele is the next fat superstar who will probably die tragically from choking on a fucking ham sandwich in a closet. Which by the way never happened - just one more example of the fact that this country loves one big fat joke. 

It also doesn't help that I was called Mama Cass throughout my childhood because of my weight.  Yeah, Cavuto, you're on my shit list now, too.

 Fox News is not the only guilty party here.  I'm sure all you have to do is go back through all the Grammy related Tweets from that night and you'll see thousands and thousands of similar comments. (I did, in fairness, comment about Adele's dress but it had nothing to do with her size but the judgment of her stylist.)

First and foremost let's keep in mind that weight is not the "end all-be all" at predicting health.  I know some extremely healthy people who are a little overweight.  I'm one of them.  I just had 2345234523 blood draws and tests to make sure I'm healthy enough for my surgery and every single result was spectacular as far as health goes.  I double dog dare you to find someone with better numbers than me at this very second.  And I know plenty of "skinny" people who are not healthy in the least.  So don't assume a health status based on that.

Next, and here's the doozy, how dare anyone insinuate that these women are incapable of being positive roll models because of their size.  REALLY?  Because their weight is the absolute predictor of their character and worth?  Being a little overweight is the worst thing they can be?

In her book, Daring Greatly, Dr. Brené Brown (yes I'm still stalking her) describes different shame categories that women and men have.  Men suffer from shame just as women do but their triggers are so very different most of the time.  They have more to do with strength, success, performance and achievement.  They worry about being good providers and not appearing weak.  Ever.

Women, however, judge themselves and are judged by others by very different criteria.  We're expected to do it all, be perfect and do it without any effort.  Naturally oozing expert femininity as we are the perfect mother, perfect wife, perfect size.  The only thing that triggers shame more than our own worry about being good mothers is our appearance.  With all the advancements we've made in culture and society it still boils down to this: Are we thin, young and pretty enough?

What happens when a women works hard to reach her dreams and finds unmeasurable success?  Someone tries to reduce all of that to a number on the scale to keep her in her place.  She can't really be that successful if she can't even keep her weight down, now can she?  Now don't we all feel better about ourselves?

People aren't concerned about Adele's health or Kelly's influence over the rest of us American fatties.  People want their superstars to look the part.  Who cares if most of them destroy their bodies to stay thin?  Who cares that drug and alcohol addiction runs rampant in the entertainment industry?  At least they look good in skinny jeans or cut-away outfits or slits up to their cooch.

Role models?  I'd venture to say that 99% of them aren't role models for the rest of us, especially our children.  Case in point: Rihanna got up on stage and performed a beautiful song, Stay, that was clearly about her inability to stay out of an abusive relationship with Chris Brown.  You know, the guy that beat the ever loving shit out of her four years ago.  Then she got off stage and joined him to cuddle in the front row.  How blessed that we have her skinny little ass to idolize.  No one seems to be concerned with the example she's setting and last I heard getting beaten to a bloody pulp was far worse for your health than being a few pounds overweight.

And let's not forget Taylor Swift.

Ok, so I don't really have anything to say about her other than she irritates the crap out of me.

If I had a daughter I would show her Adele and Kelly and tell her what can be achieved if you work hard to follow your dreams.  Or, better yet, I would show her someone like Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayer who also followed her dream and made it to the "big time".  Oh, and guess what?  She's not skinny either.  I would tell my daughters and my sons that their worth is not dependent on their weight, their approval from others or the expectations from society to fit in a mold.  They are all worthy because they were born.  End of story.

From now on I've decided to look at insults about my weight in an entirely different manner.  If I'm plugging along, working hard, doing my thing and all you've got to say about it is some insult about my weight then I KNOW I'm on the right track.  Go ahead, call me a fat bitch. You're going to have to come at me with more than that if you want to keep me down.  Because I'm not staying "small" for anyone.  And neither should you.

Pun fucking intended.

Indecent Disclosure

Yesterday started like most days: alarm, coffee, getting the kids off to school and a little work.  And then a bunch of buck ass naked pictures were taken of me by a professional.

Ok, so maybe that last part was not part of my normal Tuesday routine.  But it got your attention.

I've been thinking long and hard about whether I wanted to disclose this information.  It's not that I'm ashamed of it or embarrassed about sharing.  And I certainly am not shy about talking about my body.  I'm actually afraid of being called a hypocrite and I'm terrified that it will negate what I've been trying to do here in your eyes.  But you know what?  I told you I was going to be honest and vulnerable and authentic.  And the most honest truth is this: whether or not you think I'm a hypocrite I am not changing my mind.

In just under two weeks I am having cosmetic surgery.  Abdominoplasty to be exact.  In layman's terms I am having a tummy tuck.  I've made no secret that this has been my desire since I first lost weight.  I have waited for this for over four years, always wondering when would be the right time, the perfect weight, or the best financial situation to get it done.  I'm no longer waiting for the perfect weight, I can afford to do it and now that I am not working at the gym the right time is now.

Here's a not so secret secret about losing a drastic amount of weight.  You are a hot mess after.  You all know this already.  It's why the contestants on The Biggest Loser start out with baring their shameful fat on t.v. only to have it suddenly covered up half way through the show.  That's because it's ok for the show to shame these contestants this way.  It's not ok for the reality of drastic and quick weight loss to shame the television show.  Cover that shit up ASAP and don't tell anyone that they won't look perfect when all is said and done.

As big as I was I was always pretty solid. I still am. It wasn't even until I got pregnant at nearly my highest weight that I ever got stretch marks (and I did it again less than a year after the first was born, at exactly the same starting weight).  My stomach had no where to go any more.  It had given what it could and it was all out of give.  When I lost the weight I was left with a flap of skin hanging over at my bikini line.  A pretty hefty flap indeed.  There is no amount of exercise and perfect diet that can remedy this.  I was actually pretty lucky - it could have been much worse.  The skin has an amazing ability to shrink back if it's not terribly damaged and it did shrink back for me, otherwise I'd have a FUPA hanging down to my knees.  But I don't.  I have just enough that I can tuck that shit into my pants and be on my merry way.

The medical term for this is called a panniculus. (Don't Google the images. Yeah, I'll wait............I told you so.)  It sounds like a cross between a creamy Italian custard and a sexually deviant Roman emperor.  I can tell you it resembles the custard more closely, but it certainly makes me feel deviant.

They say when you lose weight that you should throw out all your old clothes.  I was diligent throughout my entire weight loss and I donated my clothes to friends or organizations as soon as they were too big.  To keep them would be just setting myself up for future failure.  We're not going to talk about the shame involved in having to buy some of those sizes again, right?  Yeah, I didn't think so.  Another day.

Every morning or every time I change or after every shower I see one of these old oversize outfits, except I'm wearing it.  I'm wearing a skin suit of my former 300 lb self that I just can't take off and donate.  It reminds me of my past, but not in a good way and it feels like it's just sitting there, waiting for me to fill it back up.  I'm not doing that.  I've already stopped that process and I won't go back to that size where I was at the unhappiest I've ever been in my life.  I have one choice to take it off and that's surgery.

I was actually afraid my surgeon was going to tell me that I was too fat to have the surgery - that I would need to lose a ton of weight first.  As she knelt before me back in December, grabbing my flap of a stomach and shaking it up and down she seemed giddy as a school girl. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun!  This is so exciting.  You are going to love this!"  I asked if she thought I needed to lose more before the surgery she said, "Oh, I don't think so.  I don't know if you realize this but you carry all your weight from the waist down."  *snort*  No, I hadn't noticed.  She said the chances of further weight loss coming right from that area I wanted to fix was slim to none.  She also said I had some "really good stuff" from the waist up.  She should know.  She made some of it.

You see, this is not my first surgery.  I may as well tell you all of it.  I did have one surgery four years ago after the weight loss. I had a breast lift.  I like to joke about the fact that I went from a 44FFF bra size to a 34 Long.  Seriously, tube socks with tennis balls.  Cocker Spaniel ears.  I was fed up with needing some kind of search and rescue mission to my armpits every time I laid on my back.  "No, honey.  They're back there!"  I was the same size after the surgery as I was before.  I just didn't have to roll them up into my bra anymore.  They are not completely store bought (not that there is anything wrong with that - to each their own) but they are refurbs.

I trust my surgeon, Dr. Jennifer Harrington.  She is amazingly talented and one of the best in the state.  She's just arrogant enough because she knows she's that good.  I promise you - humility is not a quality you want in a surgeon.  But I wanted the best and I know she's the one.  This is my last procedure. I will not go crazy with the cosmetic surgery.  Case in point:

So there you have it.  I was nervous to tell you about it because I thought you would call bullshit on all my body gratitude shenanigans.  Say I was full of it when I said we should love our bodies first.  But I want you to know that I am not removing this piece of skin because I'm full of hatred for it.  I've actually been living with it for quite a long time and it's normal to me.  I'm just ready to let that part of me go.  It's like scar tissue but I'm ready to move on and heal now.  It's time.  That and I just really want to be able to rock some smokin' hot drawers.  And take a break from Spanx.  And not have my shit jump out of my pants every time I round house like a mutha.  There has never been and there probably never will be a burpee and kickboxing friendly pair of drawers out there when you have a panniculus.  Especially a custardy one at that.

I'm going to be recovering for a minimum of six weeks.  Two to three of that I probably won't even leave the house except for doctor appointments.  I know I'll go stir crazy and I would have probably blown my cover anyway on Facebook if I hadn't told you about this.  Never Facebook and Percocet.  Remind me of that in a couple of weeks when I'm sliced from hip to hip and on house arrest.

So back to my naked pics.  I had forgotten that they take pictures before the surgery for the surgeon's reference and for "before" shots.  God, I would have groomed or something if I had known. This poor young woman whose only job at this office seems to be taking naked people to a closet had to kneel down in front of me and take pictures of my stomach as a raised my hands above my head.  Front. 45 degrees. Side. Other 45 degrees. Other side.  With no soft lighting or cocktails on either of our parts I'm sure it had to be the scariest mugshot since Nick Nolte's and at least he had clothes on.  I will make this promise to you here and now - the next time I have naked pictures taken of me my shit is going to look good.  And hopefully one or all of us will be a little drunk.  And candles?  Is that too much to ask?

Flattery Will Get You Everywhere

My last blog took the wind out of my sails for a little bit.  It was a bit emotionally exhausting.  And while I now know the root of some of my issues (and probably yours, too, as I believe shame is the backbone of all worthiness problems) I am not yet quite sure of the full path to healing that.  Baby steps.  I'm working on it and we'll come back to that.  Stay tuned.

For today I want to wish you a very happy National Compliment Day!!  Yes, January 24th is, according to Google, National Compliment Day.  Interestingly enough, it's also Eskimo Pie Patent Day.  And yesterday was National Pie Day.  Tomorrow is obviously Don't Even Think of Buttoning Your Jeans Day.

I don't know how these things are determined or why Americans feel a need to commemorate such ridiculous things but I'm a little angry that my birthday in August happens to be National Creamsicle Day.  I don't even like creamsicles. I want a do-over. 

National Compliment Day may not be a bad one to commemorate, though.  Who doesn't like a good compliment?

"Everybody likes a compliment" - Abraham Lincoln

"I can live for two months on a good compliment" - Mark Twain

No word yet on when National Steal a Quote Day is.  I'll keep you posted.  I'm pretty sure there will be a meme posted on Facebook about it any second.

There should be nothing in this world that feels as good as a compliment.  Sadly, the art of receiving them has been lost, particularly by women.  In my opinion we are the world's worst compliment receivers ever.  I'm guessing men sometimes struggle with this but I have never once heard a man receive a compliment and follow it up with, "Oh my God! I'm feeling really bloated and gross today and I'm sure my ass looks fat in these pants."  Not once. Do they sometimes mishear a compliment as, "I want you to take your pants off right now"?  Absolutely.  But overall they are pretty good at accepting compliments.

Women are another story altogether.  We are horrible at receiving compliments.  We will argue with you until we are blue in the face. We will systematically try to disprove your compliment theory with the Law of Falsifiability argument.  In other words, since we already believe it to be false we have no problems giving you a full break down, in outline form if you choose, of our observations that prove it as such.

Do you really think everyone is lying to you?  Do you think all your friends and loved ones are so full of shit, so misinformed as to negate every nice thing that comes out of their mouth?  How about giving them a little credit?  Are you giving honest, heartfelt feedback when you compliment a friend or partner?  You should be.  So how about you give them the benefit of the doubt?

I was researching this topic even before I knew it was a holiday.  I picked up a book from the library by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D. called Women Who Run With the Wolves - Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype and though I'm not very far at all in the book what first drew me to it was some information on how horrible some women are at receiving compliments.  She references the Ugly Duckling story by Hans Christian Andersen as a perfect example of that feeling of not belonging or fitting in and being judged for those things. She goes on to say that some people still struggle with distrust even after finding that security and belonging they were searching for.

"There is probably no better or more reliable measure of whether a woman has spent time in ugly duckling status at some point or all throughout her life than her inability to digest a sincere compliment...Although it could be a matter of modesty, more often a compliment is stuttered around about because it sets up an automatic and unpleasant dialogue in the woman's mind."

Dr.  Estés says that when we receive a compliment something in our minds tells us we are undeserving and then we assume the complimentor is an idiot for even thinking such a thing to begin with. "Rather than understand that the beauty of her soul shines through when she is being herself, the woman changes the subject and effectively snatches nourishment from the soul-self, which thrives on being acknowledged."

So we're back to internal dialogue. How we really feel about ourselves is evident in how we talk to ourselves in our quietest moments when no one else can hear.  And for 99.9% of us (ok, so that's not a real statistic) what we say to ourselves each and every day is far from complimentary.

So many women told me they couldn't participate in my 30 Days of Body Gratitude project along with me because there was no way they could come up with that many things to be grateful for.  Some couldn't even come up with one.  What can we do to try and change this?

I don't have all the answers and I'm a work in progress each and every day.  But here's a thought - how about we try just ever so slightly to see ourselves through someone else's eyes?  Someone who is kind and loving and thinks we're having a really good hair day and no, we don't look fat in that outfit. (FYI - Fellows, do not actually answer this question.  If she asks you if she looks fat in said clothes, whatever you do, evade.  Change the subject.  She already has an answer in her mind and you will never, ever find the right one.  It's a riddle, wrapped in enigma.  It's a trap and you will fall right into it.)

How about instead of arguing with someone who compliments us we just accept it?  Because I promise you this, ladies:  No man wants to argue with you.  He knows you don't argue fairly and when it comes to our appearance we are rarely rational nor logical.  It's a lose-lose situation for him.  So if you think those compliments will keep coming when you repeatedly shoot them down you are in for a rude awakening.  He will eventually stop.

I'm going to challenge you for the next month to accept every compliment you receive with grace and gratitude.  Even that creeper from the bar who is just trying to get in your pants - take it for what it's worth.  If you can't practice your own body gratitude then let someone else do your homework for you for awhile until you can.  For part of this challenge you are allowed to respond to a compliment with only two words.  If those words aren't "damn straight!" then please let them be "thank you".  And try to mean it.  Because I promise you the compliment given was genuine and full of truth.

"Like pollen on a honeybee, flattery clings to the things you tell yourself." - Willis Goth Regier, In Praise of Flattery, 2007