Sometimes the Movie is Better Than the Book

I've been riveted by the tributes to Steve Jobs, dead this week at 56. Without question, the world lost a visionary who changed our lives.
But beyond all the news coverage of the tragic passing of the Apple Inc. co-founder who led the mobile computing revolution, all the pontificating on the loss of his unsurpassed intuition and innovation, I found the greatest sadness in the reason he authorized his biography.

"I wanted my kids to know me," Jobs reportedly told the biographer, Walter Isaacson.

No matter how long I live, it's unlikely that I'll do anything infinitesimally as impactful as Jobs. But I'm equally sure of something else: My son won't need to read a book to know me. I'd like to think that he could write it.

Alex is 17, and for the last seven years since I divorced his dad, we've strengthened our bond. He's responsible for his part now, but I set the stage in the early years. And it wasn't always easy.

At 10, Alex was an academically gifted kid more interested in science fiction and video games and Dragon Ball Z than spending time with his mother. And me, well, I would have had trouble feigning interest in those activities even if I hadn't been struggling with the end of a 16-year-marriage and everything that accompanied it.

So I did the one thing I could: I showed up. I was there, to set limits on the science fiction and video games and Dragon Ball Z. Then, for the basketball games (awful), the soccer games (even worse) and the piano recitals. Next came the academic team quick recall competitions, the 5th grade production of The Emperor's New Clothes, and a one-year stint in the marching band (enough fodder there for several blog posts of their own). Today, it's all about student government leadership activities, lab projects, volunteer tutoring, and college applications. Those are his interesting pursuits. Firmly in my "snooze" category: Taylor Swift, science fiction (sadly, he didn't outgrow that one), Kentucky basketball (don't stone me, and don't bother reminding me that I'm an alum), and political history. I try to show up even for those. Alex returns the favor by supporting my flavor-of-the-month self-improvement efforts (October's special: Emotional Brain Training!), and feigning a passing interest in Buddhism, meditation, Melissa Etheridge, and djembe drumming.

Lunch today, post senior portrait session.

In the end, it's true what many people say: good parenting (or really, a relationship of any kind) doesn't happen if you don't show up. Even if it's the last place you'd like to be. Because a funny thing happens when you show up regularly with anyone. You get to know something about each other. Maybe, if you're lucky, enough to fill a book.

My guess is that Alex could fill a book with my life story so far - the good, the bad, and quite a bit of the in-between. I know that I could do the same for him. Nowadays, we gather our research during hectic we-put-it-off-too-long-and-Grandma-is-coming cleanups and our efficient weeknight lunchmaking assembly line. We make runs for frozen yogurt, pad thai chicken, or palak paneer with garlic naan.  Alex monitors our DVR with the precision of an air traffic controller so that we can spend time with our friends: Jon Stewart, Alex Trebek, House, and our current fave, Dexter. (Yes, we bond over a serial killer. Don't judge.) We spoil our beloved dog, Annie. And we make fun of each other's taste in music.

And because we're human, we gather some of that research while arguing, usually over priorities and timing - when my impatience and high standards collide with an overflowing recycling bin, not-frequent-enough walks for the aforementioned Annie, or Alex's general procrastination. And because he's a teenager, and because I have my own friends and interests, when it comes to companions, we're clearly not always each other's first choice.

Europe train station, weird American tourist pose.

What comes to mind here is that overused platitude I usually avoid: "It's all good." Like people say, it's the ordinary moments that end up meaning the most.

For the sake of Steve Jobs' kids, I hope his biography contains some of those moments. We'll know soon. Publication has been moved up to Oct. 24, and the book is currently topping Amazon's pre-order bestseller list.

I also hope, even though he's not alive to savor it, that the book contains a couple of personal accolades for Jobs from his children. Parents are supposed to love and support their kids, but it's nice to get a little something back once in a while, no matter how it's delivered.

"Some of my friends hate their parents," Alex told me recently. "I don't get that."

All Work and No Play is No Fun

More than 30 years later, I have vivid memories of my first job, as a waitress in a popular family-owned restaurant that specialized in Texas hot wieners. There was a lot to love about that job – the predictable cadence of the different shifts and sections, chatting with the regulars, the cups filled with quarters at the end of the night.

And there was Ruben. The dishwasher from the Dominican Republic was 4-foot-barely-anything, with a huge grin of misshapen teeth. He was a dedicated family man with a house full of kids, who also was dedicated to banter with the teen waitresses.

As I neared the dishwasher, Ruben would drop the sprayer. He’d lift the front of his apron with one hand, and with the other, hold up his fist, flex his arm and brag: “It’s like theees, Lee-sah. Like theees.” Then, that toothy grin.

Ruben impression for my ex boss,
Jody, at a team outing. Seriously.

Yes, he was talking about what you think he was talking about. And yes, it probably sounds a bit creepy. But I found it hilarious. Both then as a naive 16-year-old, and now, as a 47-year-old human resources professional well versed in sexual harassment.

My work colleagues have come a long way since Ruben, but they still make me laugh. And when that stops, I know that it’s time to brush up the resume and move on. Because you spend too much time and emotional energy at work not to have some fun.

My closest colleagues and I have the combination of personal knowledge and trust that is the foundation for a lot of laughs. Barely a day goes by without some good-natured ribbing, some of it fit for print, and some of it, well, not. I’ve been appreciating that even more lately, as I transition to a new team.

Ozzy, back row, third from right

Happy Hour body spelling

I’m grateful that I'll be with the same organization. I've had a lot of fun over the last seven years. I dressed up as Ozzy Osbourne (complete with both arms covered with fake tattoos) for a skit at a summer picnic. I told a new employee that every Friday was “Bring Your Dog to Work Day” and that our vice president liked to be called “Bubbles.” And predictably, some of the fun has been at my expense.

No recollection here. None whatsoever.

It’s been as simple as returning from the restroom to see that a massively overgrown zucchini someone brought in to share from their garden had replaced my computer mouse. I knew Jason had been there.

Jason also was the coworker who, soon after he got word that I passed the four-hour (and very difficult) senior HR certification exam, decided to leave me a voice mail message while I was celebrating with my study team. Ever the master of the disguised voice, he said he was calling from the certification institute to notify me of “a colossal error” and that he regretted to inform me that I hadn’t passed after all. I was listening on my cell phone and had to pull the car over to avoid having an accident. That was late June six years ago, and I still can recall the sick feeling in my stomach until I got to the very end of the long message and he said, “Ha. It’s Jason!”

My favorite prank involved not Jason, but my current team, with an assist from our vice president’s administrative assistant. It was in our old building, where we’d constantly pass huge pallets of materials with signs saying, “Hold for John Doe.” I remarked more than once: “I’ll know I’ve made it when someday there is a sign with my name on it.”

One day, upon my return from vacation, I turned the corner and there was a pallet of toilet paper with the sign, “Hold for Liz Caras.” I laughed for days, and still have the framed photo of that day on my desk.

One of the other teams within my organization recently interviewed a job candidate, and she asked the group, “Do people have fun around here?” Great question. They said yes. They offered her the job and she accepted.

I’m looking forward to having some fun with my new colleague when she starts in October. But I’ll have to get creative. Overgrown zucchinis will surely be out of season.

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Requisite Weight Loss Update

Where have I been since my last update in May and my do over? As Inigo Montoya says in one of my favorite movies, “There is too much. Let me sum up.”

So, briefly, in a stream of consciousness reminiscent of Terry McMillan’s How Stella Got Her Groove Back (Because if anyone were ever trying to get her groove back it would be me), here goes: Was on a bit of a roll with the diet and exercise regimen, worked out with the trainer but got into trouble on my own when I forgot that I was grossly out of shape and started jogging. Ouch! Lateral shin splints on both legs and a calf muscle tear on one. Then, frustration and a back slide made worse by my son being away for five weeks at summer program (missed him terribly). Soon snapped out of it. Rejoined HMR diet program with the aid of a scholarship (thanks Mom! And Happy Birthday!), renewed meditation commitment with a weekend retreat, back with therapist I love, back with trainer but taking it slowly and letting calves heal. Even sucked it up and endured a water fitness class with a couple of women old enough to be my grandmother. On a roll, but ever mindful that it’s a journey and I’m in it for the long haul. No such thing as perfection and all or nothing makes no sense. Down 16 pounds in one month. Shooting for at least more 12 this month and every month after until I’m happy where I am. I’ll check back at the 6-month mark, just after my 48th (yikes) birthday. Thanks to all for you continued support.

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I’m recovering from some oral surgery and had to lay low for a couple of days. I share with you, dear readers, one of my couch projects. You, too, can create your own magazine cover here: http://www.oprah.com/omagyourself.

And yes, I was prescribed some pain pills.

Momzilla’s Email: The Bright Side

Miss Manners Bourne, left, and Withers

Chances are, you’ve read about the British woman who sent a scathing email to her future stepdaughter-in-law, chastising her bad manners after a weekend visit.

The email went viral after the recipient, 29-year-old Heidi Withers, forwarded it to friends. The story dominated the British media for the last few days and made its way to the United States. In both places, it has evoked strong criticism, much of it directed at mother-in-law to be Carolyn Bourne, a prominent horticulturalist.

My overwhelming thought after reading the news stories and the entire missive? I would have loved to have gotten such an e-mail. Sure, Bourne comes off as snooty, judgmental, and downright insensitive to Withers’ diabetes and the financial situation of her parents. And a mean-spirited diatribe against bad manners seems like, well, bad manners.

Still, after meeting my in-laws to be, I wish they had scripted such a message. I wish they had the courage to address me directly, to tell me exactly where I stood, to put in writing what they thought of me. More than anything, it would have been honest. And to me, honesty is at the heart of family – whether you’re born into it or marry into it. It would have put the issues on the table and precipitated an open discussion. Ideally, we would have reached a compromise, or if not, agreed to disagree and minimize our interactions.

But that’s not the way it went down for the 16 years of marriage before my 2004 divorce. My in-laws proffered criticism about me to their son, made me the scapegoat for his failures, and generally used emotional blackmail to manipulate situations to their liking. Some of their antics over the years make Carolyn Bourne look like a sensitive, open-minded woman. But I won’t share those juicy details since they’re still around, are still grandparents to my son and two nephews, and are still parents to the sister-in-law I adore and my ex-husband.

Suffice it to say that I opted to keep the peace, and consequently, endured 16 years of fake smiles, superficial conversations, and a whole lot of stress, for me individually and for my marriage. Perhaps worst of all, because of their secret vitriol, I never knew when they were being genuine – when to trust anything they said or did. My fears were validated soon after the separation, when they remarked, “We never liked her anyway.”

I haven’t seen or spoken to them since my divorce. I wish them no ill will, but removing them from my life was a gift I gave myself at a time I especially needed such a gift.

If I could do it over again, I’d like to think I would handle it differently. Famous last words, I know. The best I can do now is to vow to do better when my son brings home the woman he plans to marry. My guess is that I’ll love her instantly, but if it takes more work, sign me up. Whatever happens, I’m going to model the kind of honesty that I will expect from her. And most importantly, if I have a beef or two, I pray that I’ll have the good sense to step away from the keyboard.

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Happy 1st Birthday Lizerella!!

July 4 marks the one year anniversary of this blog. A heartfelt thanks to all of you for reading. Hugs to my sister and seven close girlfriends (four at work and three outside), without whose support I wouldn’t have continued. I also want to give a shout-out to my best college friend, a professional editor who always makes time to volunteer advice.

I’ve had a wonderful time, and am looking forward to another year together.

The Gospel According to JC

JC at my 1988 wedding.

At the end of each workday, after he got dinner started, my father settled into a kitchen chair for a few moments of quiet contemplation, sipping Ouzo on the rocks. He would occasionally write his thoughts on 3 1/2 by 5-inch index cards, one thought per card, in cursive blue or black ink.

Over time, he built a three-inch stack of cards. These he stashed in a dresser drawer. They were sandwiched between pieces of cardboard and secured with rubber bands – seemingly so he could slip into the “chapters” additional thoughts as they arose.

The cards aren't dated, but a few refer to the year 1992, suggesting that some were written shortly before he passed away. James Caras died of a heart attack in February of that year; he was 62.

My mom, my sister and I found the stack – 217 cards in all – after his funeral. Some cards contain just a few words; others fill one side and spill onto the back. The
first card: The Gospel According to JC.

JC’s chapters include musings on his family, his work, his personal beliefs. Many are poignant, some funny, some R-rated and one or two, frankly, a little disturbing. My favorite chapter is “Comments I Might Make to a Son.” He never had a son (just my sister and me) but I have one. That 17-year-old has many of my dad’s positive traits, and to say that they would have loved each other is a supreme understatement.

Over the years, I’ve toyed with the idea of doing something with the cards. But nothing felt quite right. And then, when my dad came to mind because of Father’s Day this weekend, I figured that the cards had been sheltered in my desk long enough.

Like the person who wrote them, they’re not perfect. My dad was a smart, gentle man and a loving, dedicated father. But he didn't suffer fools lightly, sometimes blew up in anger at the inconsequential, and had difficulty making peace with the people and situations he felt betrayed by.

The stack’s second card provides a glimpse into the sharper edges that few outside the family saw: Why am I writing this? For posterity? Who cares. For publication? Hardly! For catharsis? Bullshit!

With that being said, I present a sampling of the gospel’s entries. It wasn’t easy to choose. First, I ruled out his critiques of the American political system, the American education system (my dad was a high school guidance director), the Greek Orthodox Church and organized religion in general. (Enough each for a blog post their own). I settled on those that made me think, made me smile, or made me chuckle. I chose the ones that might resonate still for my mom, my sister, my son, myself, and for you dear reader, because this gift is too special to keep to ourselves.

So here goes. Personal philosophy:
• What is the perfect man? One who listens to and follows his own heart.
• Intimidation is a kind of death. When you permit yourself to be intimidated into doing something you feel you should not, a small part of your uniquely beautiful being dies.
• Never make an idle threat, voice a meaningless comment or extend an undeserved compliment – unless you are a politician or a clergyman.
• Better to be thought a bastard than a jerk.
• It is your right to have and maintain all your hang-ups. You do not have the right to lay them on anyone else.
• There are those who see a bed of roses and behold beauty. There are others who see the same bed and can only imagine hidden rattlesnakes. Decide which you wish to be.
• The world is full of people who would not dare take a fat bite of life for fear the taste would be bitter. Don’t be one of them. If the taste is bitter, spit it out and bite again.
• May God protect me from doctors, lawyers and garage mechanics. All others I can deal with myself.

Friends, family and enemies:
• Respect, like love and friendship, is a two-way street. Give it only when you get it.
• Be sure you always know who your friends are and who your acquaintances are. Make many acquaintances. Limit your friends to a significant few.
• There will never be a shortage of “friends” who are willing to hold your coat while you slug it out. Piss on your coat and to hell with your gutless friends.
• React toward your relatives as you would toward your friends. If one looms an asshole, dump him. You really don’t need him at your funeral.
• Never try to “out piss” a skunk. You are not in his league. Better to bide your time, pick your place and then very methodically cut his head off.
• When you are being attacked by “big guns” and all you have is a pea-shooter – aim for the balls.

Wisdom with age:
• I have always loved without restriction or hesitation. Unfortunately, I have hated with the same intensity.
• Any decision that I permitted to be made for me, I lived to regret. I cannot think of a single exception.
• I have always been a keen observer of life. I would have liked it better to have been more of an active participant.
• During the first twenty years of my life, I was convinced that reincarnation was bunk. During the second twenty years of my life, I was convinced that reincarnation was fact. Now, I just don’t give a damn.
• Regrets? Yes, many. The one biggest regret is that I didn’t tell more people to “go fuck themselves.”

If you’re lucky enough that your father is living, get his “gospel” while you can still ask questions. I’d sure have a few for mine.

Dad and Baby Lizerella, 1964.

Mostly, though, I’d thank him for the cards, which include one about my sister and me: Both my daughters please me. I have never regretted having fathered them into this world. They have filled my heart with joy.

Right back at you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

A New Kind of Kind

It is only imperfection that complains of what is imperfect. The more perfect we are the more gentle and quiet we become towards the defects of others.
- Joseph Addison

My son’s first word wasn’t mama or dada. It was “niiiice.”

That was the word we used as we taught him to be gentle with our cats, Louie and Lauren. “Niiice” we said as we discouraged him from pouncing on them as they slept. “Niiice” again as we demonstrated how to stroke, not grab, their velvety coats.

Those lessons of kindness and gentleness were extended to all living beings throughout his childhood. And it appears that they’ve stuck. The 17-year-old he’s become is more sensitive and caring than I could have hoped for.

But now, I’m wondering whether his father and I taught him to be as kind and gentle with himself. At 47, it’s a lesson that I’m just beginning to learn for myself.

The most impactful reading I’ve done lately on a variety of subjects (Buddhism, spirituality, meditation, weight loss) has taught me that many of us never learn how to be niiice to ourselves. On the contrary, we often are downright harsh, in our self-talk and our actions. And when we are, it’s all that much harder to treat ourselves with care and to project positive thoughts and actions onto others.

We need an additional version of the Golden Rule, something like “Treat Yourself the Way You Treat Others.” Think about it. How many of us do a better job caring for others than ourselves? Are less judgmental with others? More patient? More forgiving?

I’m working hard on changing that for myself. As the Buddhist saying goes, “You can explore the universe looking for somebody who is more deserving of your love and affection than you are yourself, and you will not find that person anywhere.”

And unless you can give yourself what you deserve, you will not be able to give it to anyone else either. So simple, yet so elusive. I don’t remember being taught that concept. In fact, the lessons ingrained in my mind are more along the lines of “Put others first.” Thinking of yourself first was, well, selfish.

Not a bad lesson for an elementary school student. The problem is, the lesson never matured as I did. The result? I can be really tough on myself. Super critical. I rarely live up to my own expectations because they often can be summed up in one word: perfection. And if I can’t be perfect, then why bother trying?

That is certainly the case with me and my nearly 20-year weight battle. I’m angry and disappointed at myself for being overweight, and when I’m angry and disappointed, I can’t muster the energy to change it.

I’m trying to take the advice of the authors of two of the most recently popular weight loss books. “Only kindness makes sense,” says Geneen Roth, in her bestseller Woman, Food and God. “Anything else is excruciating.”

Through Marianne Williamson’s A Course in Weight Loss, I’m trying to learn what she calls the “discipline of love.”

“Love is merciful, gentle, understanding, patient, forgiving, and kind,” she says. “So you must be toward yourself as you go through this process.”

Those qualities come in handy in other endeavors as well. If I keep them in mind during meditation, I have a richer, deeper practice. Otherwise, I’m obsessing about perfect posture, aggressively following my breath, and before I know it, I’m making a grocery list and planning my next vacation.

The same is true for my djembe drumming hobby. The more critical and impatient I am with myself, particularly on challenging patterns, the worse I play. And the less I enjoy playing.

Whether it’s weight loss, meditation, drumming or life in general, I am working to remember that I’m human, and therefore, not perfect. Not even close. So I’m trying give myself a break. I’m trying to like myself, despite some things that I’d like to change. I’m trying to be more forgiving when I do something that I’d rather I hadn’t, or when I have an off moment, or day – or week. Because I know now that seeing, accepting, caring for and loving yourself is as perfect as it gets.

Beginning Again

It’s been nearly three months since I aired my plus-size laundry in public, sharing plans to finally lick my two-decades-long weight loss struggle. I promised to check-in after a couple of months or after the first 15-pound weight loss.

The months? Check. The weight loss? Not so much.

I was encouraged for a while, buoyed by the freedom of publicly acknowledging my struggle. I was blown away by the heartfelt messages of support (Thanks to all of you). Then, partly because of the public acknowledgment and the heartfelt messages, I panicked. And soon, I was back to my old ways. In the March post, I confessed to being a few Blizzards and Chinese buffets away from 300 pounds. When I weighed in for the weight loss challenge at work on the morning of May 10, it would be more accurate to say that I was a couple of Tic Tacs away.

So, I borrowed a trusted lesson from my meditation practice: I began again. In other words, I exercised the prerogative that you never outgrow and gave myself a do-over. It’s been only two weeks, but I feel like I’m on my way.

Some steps in that direction:
1. I entered the aforementioned weight loss challenge at work, on a team with three female colleagues. Highest team weight loss percentage wins the contest, which runs from May 10 to Aug. 9. There are prizes, but we’re in it for the motivation. (OK, and the glory.)
2. I got a physical exam, even though I knew there would be a scale and needles involved.
3. I’m eating better. More vegetables, fruits, lean protein, whole grains and good fats. Less bad fat and cholesterol (see #2), white flour, sugar and preservatives. I’m not weighing and measuring, or counting calories. Just aiming for generally healthy meals, and moderation when they’re not.
4. I’m treating my night eating issue like the addiction it’s become – remaining ever vigilant and taking one day at a time.
5. I joined a gym – one that I have to drive by on the way home from work – and am shooting for five workouts a week.
6. I signed up with a trainer who will work with me two times a week and direct the remaining three workouts. I’m hoping that the small fortune I invested will help keep me motivated.
7. I’ve recommitted to a regular meditation practice for several reasons, including the fact that I want a fighting chance at numbers 1 through 6.

So, I’m getting busy with the business of beginning again. I’ll check back soon after the Aug. 9 end to the weight loss challenge. I’m hoping for the best for me – and for the trainer, who I’ll call “Jackie” in honor of the beloved Jack LaLanne. I’m changing her name in the likely event that I’ll want to say mean things about her in the future.

An actual portion of our first meeting, as I detailed the 11 p.m. snacking habit I’ve been battling:
Jackie: “What are you doing up at 11 p.m.?”
Me: “I’m eating.”

It looks like she’ll have to earn every cent of that small fortune.

Reason #347 I’m Glad I’m No Longer a Teenager

Boyfriend David K. and me

I never got asked to the prom.

Well, although that is technically true, I was not without a date to either my junior or senior prom. It was just assumed that my high school boyfriend and I would go together, so we did. Boys who didn’t have a girlfriend decided who they would ask, headed to her locker and said something provocative such as, “Wanna go to the prom with me?”

Things were much simpler 30 years ago. Today, everyone has to be asked, even longtime girlfriends. And The Ask has to be something special, something creative, something elaborate. Otherwise, it’s considered “lame,” according to the 17-year-old expert in my household.

On this subject, I’ve got to give him credit for walking the walk. Even though he and his date are just good friends, that didn’t give him license to be “lame.” He heard that she wanted to be asked via piano sonata, so he obliged with a bit of humor thrown in. He showed up at her door one night last month with a plastic toy piano that he pretended to play, a sonata on his iPod and a giant bouquet of flowers. No matter that it started raining and the iPod sonata was barely audible. He got a yes and they’re preparing for the big day on May 6.

Mom looks the same. Seriously.

He’s since told me stories of boys who posed their questions via glow sticks on driveways, icing on cupcakes and painting on bare chests. I mentioned this to a friend at work who has a same-age daughter at a different high school, figuring that it was just a one-school trend. No way. Her daughter’s prom date found out what her favorite flowers are (white roses) and presented her with an origami bouquet that he made himself. Another boy at that school tried to ask a soccer-playing girl via crepe paper on the soccer goal, but the letters kept disintegrating in the rain before she saw them. The girl also was a cheerleader, so he ended up asking the squad to do a special routine while he stood in the bleachers, holding a bouquet of flowers. Yet another boy enlisted the help of his math teacher, who revealed a portion of a white board and told class members they had one more problem to solve: to determine whether Jill (name changed to protect the fact that I don’t know it), would go to the prom with Jack (ditto on the name change).

As if my exhaustive research with my work pal weren’t enough, I hit the Internet. I Googled “Prom Ask Ideas” and immediately realized that I must have been living under a rock the last few years. There are thousands of entries, including an Ask.com page, blogs, forums, wikis – you name it. There are YouTube videos that capture the asking, and YouTube videos that themselves are the asking. An ehow.com article begins with “Prom season is for making memories, but the experience doesn't start with the dance. It begins with the invitation…” The article groups its suggestions into “Romance” categories, ranging from “Adventurous Romance” to “Old Fashioned Romance.” Old fashioned? What, the kids who aren’t yet 20 yearn for the good ol’ days? What are the good ol’ days for them, preschool?

Earlier this very month, a woman devoted a blog post to ideas designed to be both creative and inexpensive. Ironically, she’s also hawking for $10 a CD called “Asking in a Crafty Way” that promises 100 ideas. “Asking for a date just isn't what is used to be...especially if you live in Utah!” she says. Well, obviously. I always say, when it comes to dating trends, as Utah goes, so goes the nation.

A North Carolina teen convinced his AP US Government and Politics teacher to turn his prom ask into a question on a recent test. "I'm 29 and it hasn't been all that long since I've been to the prom," the teacher told the Charlotte Observer in an April 17, 2011 story. "I don't remember kids being this creative.” I’m with him. And not just because we 29-year-olds have to stick together.

So what’s to make of this phenomenon? On one hand, it certainly is a bit over the top. I’m wondering if some girls feel pressured to say yes since the guy went to so much trouble and maybe even became a public spectacle. I shudder to think of how far some men will have to go to outdo themselves when it’s time to ask a woman to marry him. And think about how many starving children could be fed or Habitat for Humanity homes built if these teens applied all that time and energy to loftier pursuits.

On the other hand, what’s the harm? At the heart of these creations, productions and presentations is a boy realizing that he wants to spend some time with a girl and deciding to take a chance. It’s one human being learning something about another human being and working to make that person feel special. There’s courage and grace and sweetness in that. And Ask.com be darned, that’s the kind of Old Fashioned Romance we all could use some more of.

A Vacation of One's Own

Cat takes a bath break.

Go on vacation alone. I put it on my bucket list because I knew that it would be a challenge. And I knew I needed it.

Three days in, I can clearly see that the challenge is a gift. I’m writing this from a meditation and writing retreat in the Colorado Rockies. It’s breezy but sunny and I’m at a picnic table in the “downtown” area of the Shambhala Mountain Center. One of the center’s cats is keeping me company.

It’s “writing time” during the retreat and we can go anywhere and write about anything. We can go for a walk, do a bit of reading, sit around and think, whatever gets our juices flowing, as long as it doesn’t involve talking. That’s a challenge for me as well. In general, I’d like to do more thinking and writing and less talking. Those around me would probably like that as well.

We started the day with breakfast, meditation and free-flow writing, where we handwrite in a journal three pages of something, anything – pretty much a stream of consciousness. Then, there are two and a half hours of writing time, which puts me where I am right now. After lunch, there will be more meditating and more writing, a group tea, a discussion on Buddhism or meditation, dinner, more meditating, reading aloud our works and gentle critiques from the group, and then 10:30 p.m. curfew. It’s a six-day program and I tacked on a day before and a day after. That makes for a lot of alone time. And that is something that just a few years ago, I couldn’t imagine ever putting myself through, much less considering it a gift.

Aside from a three-month internship one summer when I was in my 20s, I’ve never lived alone. I went from the Connecticut house where I grew up to college dorms and then apartments, where I always had roommates. After graduation, I spent some time in LA, renting a room in a house. Then, I moved in with the man who would become my husband. When we divorced after 16 years and our then 10-year old began spending two nights a week with him, it was the first time I was ever alone on a regular basis. I was so ill at ease that I would pick up the phone the moment I got in, would obsess about someone breaking in – was generally uncomfortable in my own home. In therapy at the time, I ended up working as much on that as I did on the end of my marriage.

I learned that it was my skin, not my house, in which I was uncomfortable. I learned to allow – even welcome – the thoughts and feelings and memories that slip in during moments of quiet. And I learned to create those moments more often, to take time away from the phone, e-mail, the Internet, the jam-packed schedule that for most of us is the status quo. Now, I actually look forward to having time alone, to think, to putter, to write, to meditate, to just be. In short, I’ve come to appreciate the pleasure of my own company.

But there still is that bucket list, so here I am in Colorado. In addition to the fact that I have my own room and hours of free time that I must spend alone, there is no music, no television, no cell phone service and Internet only for occasional e-mail checks and of course, to upload this post. (We’re not animals after all.) It’s a big change from how I spend most of my days back at home. It’s a big change from how I spend most of my vacations, too.

View outside my room.

I’m reveling in the differences – the breathtaking scenery, the grace and wisdom of the bestselling author who is leading the retreat, some creative vegetarian and vegan meals (I’m going meatless the whole time) and the company of interesting folks on paths similar to my own.

While I’m here, I’m reading the latest book by the author who is leading the retreat, Susan Piver. This retreat center is one of her favorite places and she wrote some of “The Wisdom of a Broken Heart,” while she was here. I just finished the chapter on meditation. A couple of lines could have been written for me, at this very moment: “Meditation is the noble act of making friends with yourself, just as you are. ...When you sit and meditate, you are agreeing to hang out with yourself, exactly as you are.”

Reflections on Reality

I opened my eyes today a few minutes before the 6 a.m. alarm would ring, just in time to push a button and spare myself the rude buzz. Much more pleasant this way, and less likely to wake Blake, who had 40 minutes before the buzzing would be coming from the alarm on his nightstand.

I watched him sleep while I pulled on my yoga clothes, ever so conscious that my life partner was worth waiting decades for. It was still dark as I ran through the familiar routine: Mountain pose, half sun salute, upward facing dog, downward dog, forward lunge, forward bend, another half sun salute and back to mountain pose.

In the shower I went over my day: work, lunch with my three best girlfriends, the gym and then home. And it was Blake’s turn to cook. Weekdays don’t get much better than this.

I stepped out into the steam-filled bathroom, wrapped my hair in a towel turban and pulled on a terry robe. Darn. I had forgotten to turn on the fan again and the mirrors were fogged. I decide to wait for the fan to do its work, rather than smear an opening with my hands. After all, I don’t need to see to apply body lotion.

As the mirrors slowly cleared, so too did my reflection: The wavy hair peeking out of the turban, the brown eyes, straight white teeth. But my face was rounder, fleshier. And it wasn’t just my face. I tore open the robe and in one glimpse understood: This is the real me. It’s not the person I wish I were – the person I keep trying to be, but failing. This is the real me. At this moment, this is the real me.

I can’t do yoga, haven’t been to the gym in months and Blake doesn’t exist, so he’s probably not going to be making dinner.

How do I feel about the real me? For the most part, not bad. She’s smart, funny, interesting and kind. And she’s grateful for her many blessings: a strong spiritual core, a fantastic group of family and friends, a challenging and interesting job, enriching hobbies - even a dog who she adores.

Why isn’t that enough to allow her to maintain a healthy eating and exercise regimen for more than a few months at a time? Why can’t she get a handle on this issue once and for all? Why does her addiction have to be so internally painful and externally visible? And why is she speaking of herself in the third person?

Me. Me, myself and I. That’s where the problem is. And that’s where the solution is.

My mirror and my wardrobe have been telling me there is a problem for decades now. For the last couple of years, my body has been telling me too. And like they say, when you don’t listen, the messages get louder.

I’m a few Blizzards and Chinese buffets away from 300 pounds. I can’t climb a flight of stairs (or heck, tie my shoes) without losing my breath. I’m a prime candidate for diabetes, a heart attack or stroke. A year ago, tests confirmed that my lung functioning was compromised. Further tests ruled out heart problems and pointed to a simple diagnosis: I’m fat. My doctor called it obesity hypoventilation syndrome, which my short neck makes me more susceptible to. It’s also known as Pickwickian syndrome, after the obese, red-faced character Joe from Dickens' The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Depression is a common side effect. No wonder. The diagnosis is enough to depress anyone.

But as incomprehensible as it is for some to believe (Hi Mom!), even that wasn’t enough for me to maintain healthier habits. I was on track for a while, but only for a while. It was like every other attempt during the last 20 years. And there have been a few. Short of surgery and hypnosis, I’ve tried it all: Every diet, every program, every book, every product, every support group, every piece of equipment. I’ve joined and quit every gym in town. I’ve been through four trainers, three therapists and one psychiatric nurse practitioner.

I’m smarter, sure. I know more about nutrition and exercise than I ever thought I would. I’ve done the gritty, painful emotional work to learn how I got here. And I picked up a few other uncomfortable, but necessary, personal revelations along the way.

But like anyone else in this situation (and there are many of us), the problem is with myself, in this moment. And that’s where the solution is.

So, I’m going to take what I know and take one day at a time. I’m going to remember that there is no such thing as perfection, that this journey is just part of my overall journey and that we’re all struggling with something. I’m getting rid of gimmicks and programs and regimens and apps and charts and graphs. I will treat my body like it deserves to be treated. I will eat healthier and move more. Not very catchy, I know. But I feel like it’s one of the few things I haven’t tried.

The other thing I haven’t tried is going public. Maybe that will make a difference. Just writing this all down has helped me focus. It might help someone else. But I don’t want this blog to become “all weight loss, all the time.” So I’ll check in after each 15-pound loss, or every couple of months, if this program without programming doesn’t catch on.

I hope to be back in a few weeks. I’ll be getting there one day at a time.