Synchronicity

As my mother's health failed and, month by month, she came closer and closer to death, she started telling stories of her youth; wonderful stories that I knew I would want to remember. I gave her a maple lap desk and a journal so she could record the memories she wanted to preserve. She loved the idea of it, but in practice, her concentration was used up just coughing and breathing. She had none left for writing.

I usually blog sitting in my favorite chair in the living room, that same maple lap desk balanced across the chair's overstuffed arms (much like my own), and my netbook atop the thin blond wood. At long last, the desk (which has been languishing behind my grandmother's chifferobe for fourteen years) fulfills its purpose. For me, there's always been tomorrow, and I don't want to wait, like my mother did, until the tomorrows are too doubtful to spend wandering in the past. That's why I want to spend a certain portion of my blog time recording from my past. And not just events that negatively shaped my relationship with food.

It can be construed to be a good thing, therefore, that food figures in many (if not most) significant events of my past. Yes, I ate when I was sad, depressed, upset, angry, feeling deprived, feeling rejected, feeling – blah. But I also ate when I was happy, having fun, with friends, celebrating – whatever. Food has been my constant companion throughout my life, at once my closest confidant, my best friend and my most devious and destructive enemy. Of course most of my memories revolve around it.

I've written before about how all the "good" food in our house was my father's food. It was verboten, unless you had his permission to eat it. My mother and I had a different larder and a separate schedule for meal times. We ate with my father on Saturday evening (steak and baked potatoes) and on Sunday evening (fried chicken and mashed potatoes). Weekdays, my father worked late, so my mother and I ate dinner without him. He frequently arrived home as we were finishing up. It didn't matter what we were eating (and it was usually some sort of Weight Watchers-sanctioned dried out baked chicken or smelly fish), he'd always have something snide to say. "There they are, at their favorite activity," was a frequent greeting. Is it any wonder that my mother and I became conspirators in sneaking treats?

After piano lessons on Wednesdays, we got ice cream cones at Baskin-Robbins. John White Burgers and Goldbrick Sundaes at Southtown Famous-Barr was a special dinner treat. Another of our haunts was the Crestwood Plaza Stix, Baer & Fuller, where we'd pretend to be "good" by ordering the Chef's Salad, which was so huge, you could have worn the bowl over a motorcycle helmet, and then get desert. Gianni's was good for Italian fare.

My mother was eating disordered, as were her parents before her, and she passed (or certainly helped to pass) the disorder to me, like a deadly disease. But not a wasting disease. No, this addiction affliction is more a swelling disease, a ballooning disease. And, unfortunately, I'm still attached to the hose.

So, is what's going on with me and food nature or nurture? I am powerless over food; it rules me as surely as Pavlov's bell made his puppy dog drool! From my perspective, my eating disorder might as well be genetic.

Manana

It's Sunday evening and I have not had the most nutritious of weeks. Today, I went to the baseball game (Cardinals lost – boo, hiss) so I ate ballpark nachos supreme, which are a particular weakness of mine. I'm usually not much of a nacho eater, although I am a big fan of Tex Mex and Mexican food. At the ballpark, though, I can't wait to dig in. And I don't like to share, so nobody asks - much!

I had my ballpark nachos and then ended up getting Mexican food later, too. The sit down meal was so dreadful, however, I feel like I ate the most nutritious part and left the rest. The only drawback is that now I have a stomach ache (TOO much chili powder; I like heat, but this was just harsh!) and I just HATE to go to a restaurant and get bad food. It just makes me feel deprived. Feeling deprived makes me eat compulsively, even if I feel sick. So far, I am resisting that really bad idea. But the compulsion is weighing heavy on my mind.

So, I'm looking forward to a new week of improvement in nutritious living. I am planning several days of dinner ahead: pasta with summer squash and pine nuts in an al fresco tomato sauce, oven-fried chicken breasts, open-faced steakburgers, tandoori chicken with broiled vegetables. All of this food falls on the more nutritious end of the continuum and it is all stuff that I find very satisfying.

Now, the good news about today is that I got some walking in. It wasn't pretty and I didn't like it, but not much you can do about it if you want to go to the ball game and you don't care to be pushed around in a wheelchair. I plan to resist that as long as I can. So I'm hurting this evening, but I'm pretty satisfied with my activity level today.

Tomorrow's another day. Thanks again for following along and leaving me such wonderful, supportive comments. More later.

More on “Being a Grown Up Means You Can Eat What You Want”

Looking at old pictures of myself, I notice that I'm a pretty normal sized little kid. Around kindergarten and 1st grade, I look a little "sturdy," with impressive chipmunk cheeks (ready for winter, no less), but otherwise I match up fairly well. It's not until I get into high school that my weight starts to creep up and not until college that I break the 200 lb. barrier.

This makes sense to me. As a toddler and grade schooler, my intake was largely controlled by others: my parents, the school lunch program (one child, one tray, no seconds), other prudent adults connected to our family. Oh, sure, I had the odd nickel or dime that I could spend at Chapman's Confectionery or Wolf's Bakery, and I did, but those were predictable treats that my mother could adjust for.

In high school, I was still a slave to the school cafeteria, but there were choices and I was only limited to the money in my pocket. Finally free to choose what I wished without having to ask permission, I ate burgers and fries, pizza, Little Debbie cakes and chocolate shakes for lunch. When my weekly allowance ran out (usually around Wednesday), I'd have to make do with the Weight Watcher's lunches my mother packed. After a while, I figured out I could eat the WW lunch and supplement it with the LDs and shakes on the cheap.

By the time I was a junior in high school several friends had cars. Now my culinary boundaries were expanded again, broadening to include Steak and Shake, McDonald's and White Castle. As I got older, my allowance increased, too, and that's not all. My butt, belly and thighs all encroached on new territory.

I weighed about 180 lbs. when I graduated from high school. That year, I played basketball, softball and powder puff football. I was also playing a lot of tennis. So, yes, I was overweight, but I was very muscular, so I looked maybe 20-25 lbs. thinner than my actual weight.

College opened new vistas in food abuse to me. I lived in the dorm the first couple of years I was away, so my meal ticket was included in the room and board my parents paid. The cafeteria was good for every meal except Sunday dinner and you could go back through the line as many times as you wanted. It was all you care to eat, all the time, every single meal, except Sunday dinner. Well, you can imagine what happened.

Even so, I didn't tip the scale fantastic until I moved out of my parents' house and into a place of my own. Since that time, I've packed on about 100 lbs. Here's the kicker, though: that's about 6 or 7 lbs. a year! A half a pound a month! For someone like me, that's barely noticeable. It's like it happened while I was sleeping!

I often wish I could step into Mr. Peabody's Way Back Machine and try it again, knowing what I know now. Probably, I would be healthier. Given all the money I've spent on food over the years, I definitely would be richer. I'm not sure I'd be wiser, since whatever wisdom I've acquired has been pretty hard-won.

But of course, I can't go back and I wouldn't. The weight and the health issues aside, I have a wonderful life full of unique and treasured friends. My family is so cool I can barely keep from shouting about it at inappropriate times in public places. Love pours in and there is not a day that I don't think to myself, "I am truly blessed." Thanks to you all.

The Dog Days

From about age 3 until I was 11, I lived in south St. Louis, in the Shaw neighborhood on Botanical Avenue. Tower Grove Park was 1 block to the south and Shaw's Garden (now the Missouri Botanical Garden) was 1 block west. I remember Shaw's Garden before the Climatron and the Japanese Garden were constructed. After I transferred to Wade School (on Vandeventer) from Sherman School (on Flad), my friends and I cut through Shaw's Garden to go to and from school. Back then, it was free, although we did have to squeeze through a chained gate to get through on the backside.

Shaw's Garden had lots of interesting acreage to explore and Tower Grove Park was the site of many a pick-up baseball game. Tower Grove also had a pond ringed by stone structures great for climbing, the "do not climb on rocks" signs notwithstanding. We called the artfully piled rocks "the ruins" and spent hours playing make believe among the boulders. There was also some kind of Bi-State bus terminal at the end of my block. A large bush/tree in the corner of the property that had grown into a bower or sorts and that was U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, from which Napoleon Solo (my friend Mary) and Illya Kuryakin (I) launched many a mission. Mary's little brother Timmy wanted to play, too, but we always made him be Mr. Waverly, so he got bored pretty quickly.

It was a great area for kids in the late 50s and early 60s. In addition to the delights described above, we also rode bikes all over the neighborhood, wandered the business district on 39^th Street with scavenged pennies and nickels, played Mother May I, Swing the Statue and Street Light Tag. On hot summer days, we put on our swimming suits and took to the backyard with the garden hose, where we pretended we were the hard-luck contestants from Queen for a Day (the garden hose was the "Applaus-o-meter" – whoever shot the stream highest into the air was the winner of gleaming white Amana appliances). My front porch was the site for endless games of Combat. Twilight was the time for fireflies and the Mister Softee music tinkling throughout the neighborhood long before the blue and white truck came around the corner or down the street.

The point of all this exposition is that I got plenty of activity when I was a kid. Later, in high school and college, I played organized sports like softball and basketball and even rugby. I rode my bike all over campus and beyond. I played tennis for hours and hours. I loved it.

I feel so trapped now, inside my prison of flesh. Memories of those glory days are bittersweet. Thinking about my brilliant career in high school and college sports pains me now. I am embarrassed to be so physically impaired that I can barely shuffle across the street to where my car is parked in a handicapped spot. Getting physically active seems an even more insurmountable goal than controlling my eating. I can't even wrap my brain around how I might change my physical situation. Gentle readers, have you any ideas for me?

You’re in the Army Now

My dad was in the army in the early 1950s. Many times, when we sat down to dinner as a family (not the norm, actually), he would reminisce about meals in the army base mess hall. Apparently, in every mess hall he had occasion to visit, there was a sign exhorting the G.I.s to "Take all that you want, but eat all that you take." He pretty much lived by this rule, and I heard it so often as a kid, it became embedded in my brain at a cellular level. I may not have been able to take all that I wanted, but I certainly could (and did) eat all that I was served! It was my family's version of the clichéd exhortation to "Clean your plate - there are children starving in Africa who would love to get that food."

Cleaning my plate remains an obsession with me to this day. Coupled with the whole deprivation thing discussed previously, I have a life-threatening complex of eating compulsions. On one hand, I over-serve myself to avoid feeling deprived, but then I can't stop eating until my plate is clean. I am embarrassed to confess that at times too numerous to count, I have forced myself to continue eating long after I was uncomfortably full or even nauseous.

With that in mind, I am basking in a small victory from dinner this evening. I was successful in giving myself permission to eat two ears of corn and then only cooking and eating one. Also, I gave myself permission to eat a couple of small poultry brats, but I was able to forego the hotdog buns I also gave myself permission to eat. I am still thinking about the corn, but I keep reassuring myself that it's okay to go cook and eat another ear if I want. So far, the permission is enough all by itself.

So I will continue to try to control my portion sizes by giving myself permission to eat more. As long as that is working, eating all that I take is something I can live with.

Permission to Eat

This day is pretty close to Nirvana for me: I am watching my beloved Missouri Tigers (I'm an alum) battle their hated foes the Illini in the Arch Rivalry game and later I will watch my St. Louis Cardinals attempt to take the Pittsburgh Pirates to the mat for the second time in two days.

I got my love of (and head for) sports from my father. It was the only thing we could agree upon and do together without strife, especially as adults. I can't say we were like oil and water; more, I would say we were like two positive poles on a pair of magnets – so much alike, we couldn't comfortably stay pushed together.

Of course, like most men of his generation, my dad really wanted a son to whom he could pass on all his man-lore. And, of course, I wanted to be that son because I so craved his attention. So I watched sports and played sports. The most excited I ever saw my dad was when I quarterbacked the winning team in the powder puff football game my high school sponsored.

So now, my dad has passed away, but my love of sports remains. My father also played a significant role in shaping my relationship with food. Now, I take full responsibility for the choices I've made that have brought me to this impasse. That being acknowledged, it's also important to understand the factors that influenced my choices and relationship with food. My dad is just one of many.

I don't really remember a time that I was not "on a diet" or worrying about going on a diet. My parents were both obsessed with food in their individual ways and, inevitably perhaps, so was I. My mother was perpetually "watching her weight," so the only treats in the house belonged to my father. If I wanted to eat a piece of pie or a scoop of ice cream, I had to ask his permission. To be fair, he always said "yes," but usually had some pointed, snide weight- or size-based observation to offer along with his acquiescence. And his food kingdom extended beyond the realm of sweets; he also held sway over regular bread (as opposed to "diet" bread), mashed potatoes, popcorn, mixed nuts, and even sliced cheese and lunchmeat. If we had fried chicken for Sunday dinner (sort of a family tradition) the breast belonged to him. I ate mostly thighs and drumsticks, which are the parts kids are supposed to like, but, oh, how I coveted that breast!

Is it any wonder all my comfort food now is the stuff that was "Daddy's food" when I was a kid? And that I grew up believing that a big part of being an adult meant that you could eat the food you wanted?

So, for me, two big cords in the Gordian knot that is my relationship with food are Deprivation and Permission. I cannot contemplate restricting myself in any way without causing my inner child to freak out, which triggers compulsive eating. So, how to not feel deprived? I believe the key to changing my relationship with food is Permission.

I was a pack-plus-a-day smoker from about 1971 until 1983 (bear with me; this does relate). I never fretted about smoking the way I fretted about food. I smoked, I liked it, I felt no need to quit. Then I got sick in the summer of 1983. I got too sick to smoke. By the time I recovered, I hadn't had a cigarette for about two weeks. When I felt better, the first thing I wanted was a cigarette, but I decided to see how long I could go without a cigarette. I never lit up another.

Central to my success when I quit smoking was this: I gave myself permission to smoke. If the craving got to be too much, I could have a cigarette. It was always my choice and because I truly did give myself permission to smoke, I didn't feel deprived.

I haven't been able to achieve that same mental place as regards food, but I believe this: giving myself permission to eat what I please and then feeling secure enough in that permission to not act on it is the sword that will cut that Gordian knot and free me from my compulsive eating.

This is plenty for me to think about. More later . . .