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.

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.