Two-dimensional Planet

I’m not having the best of luck this summer. On the plus side, I’ve built up some sick days. On the minus side, I’m using them all.

About a month ago, my sister came in from Pittsburgh to go to the Billy Joel concert at Shea Stadium. On her last day here we went to the beach. It was great. I hadn’t been to the beach here before, and I was surprised by the gorgeous beaches 20 minutes from my house (driving). I knew we weren’t gonna be there very long so I skipped the sunblock on my feet. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I KNOW better. The sun is not my friend. We are, in fact, bitter enemies. And as evidence of this enmity, I ended up with blistering sunburn on my feet and ankles after just over an hour in the sun. And since I couldn’t really walk, I missed 2 days of work in July.

Then last night I had a fight with a pot of boiling water. In retrospect it could have been much, much worse. I burned three of my fingers and part of my right hand. Hooray for being left-handed! I was totally unprepared for how much that hurt. I would have thought that with my history of bad sunburns, I had some idea of how painful burns can be. But this was bad. I was sitting on the couch with my hand in a bowl of water. I felt fine when my hand was in the water, but if I took it out, yikes. There was much whimpering.

Bill was just kind of staring at me with a look of terror. He was totally at a loss. So he eventually fell back on his librarian training and did what he does best… he found information. He went online to try to find some answers and found that when I reached for the icepack (also known as frozen peas) to deal with the pain, that was a really, really bad idea. I, um, think I gave myself frostbite. There are little white patches inside the burn. The ER doctor that I saw didn’t use the word frostbite, but he said I did some damage with the ice. So yeah, I think it’s frostbite. Jeez.

The ER guy also said that I can’t go back to work for 3 days. Which I suppose makes sense. I’ve got this burn cream stuff all over my hand, and I can’t move my fingers very well. So I’m home for the rest of the week. Plenty of time to read and blog and stuff.

But it sucks that it’s the last few weeks of Summer Reading. I was pushing storytime all day yesterday to everyone who came in with little kids. I had fun stuff planned and I was really looking forward to it. When he showed me the note that said 3 days, I tried to talk him out of it. I wasn’t planning to go in today because I was in the ER til 2:30, but I was a little shocked that I’d have to be out for the rest of the week. Apparently, though, the doctor thinks that his medical advice trumps Summer Reading. And since I’ve really only got one functional hand at the moment, I’ve got no choice but to agree.

I’m off today.  It’s a Tuesday.  It’s a chilly, rainy Tuesday.  My apartment is kind of dark and cold.  So my plan was to spend this chilly, rainy Tuesday on my couch with a book and a cup of coffee, taking occasional breaks from laziness to wash some dishes and make my husband really happy by clearing my piles of junk off the dining room table.

There was a fatal flaw in this plan.  We haven’t been to the store in weeks.  There was almost literally no food in the house, and no milk for the coffee that was such an integral part of my rainy Tuesday plan.  So I sighed and changed out of my comfy sweats and my fuzzy-warm slipper-socks that Bill got me for Christmas and made my way to the store.

I chose the damp, dark, warehousey store that’s pretty much right across the street instead of the big, bright, clean, suburban-style chain that’s about 10 blocks away.  Since I wasn’t going that far and wasn’t really getting that much stuff, I opted to leave my granny cart at home and just carry my stuff around.  So by the time I returned home with my two half-gallons of milk and lots of yogurt (it was on sale) and produce (apples, grapes, tangerines, and baby carrots were 99 cents/pound – there was really no way to resist), I was tired.  And I was kind of grumpy from having to go out in the rain.  Also, I was hungry since I hadn’t eaten yet.

So when I got home, I started a pot of coffee and threw some bread in the toaster while I put away my groceries.  Then, when I sat down with my toast and coffee, this memory appeared out of nowhere.

I remembered sitting down at the kitchen table when I was about 8.  My dad was sitting there drinking coffee and my mom was making toast.  When my dad offered me a sip of his coffee, I told him I didn’t want his coffee, I wanted my mom’s coffee (she used way more sugar than he did).  So I stole a sip of my mom’s coffee before she sat down.  The kitchen smelled like coffee and toast and my dad was pretending to be offended that I liked my mom’s coffee better than his.

I usually try to avoid thinking about my mother.  But I was hungry, tired, and grumpy and she slipped into my head while I wasn’t paying attention.  But this wasn’t a bad memory.  It was actually kind of a nice one, even though I don’t remember anything that she said.  Or maybe because I don’t remember anything she said.

I used to think that I didn’t have any good memories of her, but I don’t think that’s true.  She took me to see ET (my dad refused), she was always nice to me when I was sick.  And every once in a while, apparently, we managed to be in the same room without fighting, and she shared her coffee with me.

I still remember how to make it… how much sugar to spoon in, what color it should be after the milk is poured.  I’ve always tried to do everything different from the way she did.  Part of me really believes that if she did it, it has to be wrong.  I even avoid her favorite ice cream (yes, I know that’s a little crazy).  But I take my coffee EXACTLY the way she did, and I didn’t remember that until today.

Ok, so I started Weight Watchers last week. I can’t believe I just wrote that because I swore Bill to secrecy. But since only a couple of people actually read this, I suppose this is a good start for coming out of the WW closet. Bill doesn’t really get why he can’t tell anyone, and I can’t really explain it to him, but none of that is really the point.

Starting WW reminded me that my friend sportandjanie recommended the book, I’m not the New Me by Wendy McClure, so I finally got around to reading it. I checked it out of the library yesterday and finished it this morning. It was really, really good. And it made think a lot about why I’m doing this.

It started with Bill and I having A Talk. We’ve had this Talk before with limited success. It pretty much comes down to it freaks him out that I’m seriously overweight and my cholesterol is dangerously high and I’m doing nothing about it. Which, of course, he’s right about. And I’ve got information that he doesn’t. Turns out, I’m not just “overweight”. The actual term here is “morbidly obese”. Which means that the extra pounds I’m carrying around could, in fact, actually kill me. I’ve chosen not to share this bit of information with my husband. I don’t need the extra pressure.

So, I get it. He’d kind of like it if this whole “rest of our lives” thing we’ve got going on would be as long as possible. I do get it. But it usually still pisses me off anyway when we talk about it. Why? Because he’s so fucking RIGHT. And if I accept that, it means that I have to start doing stuff about it, and that’s really a lot of work. A LOT of work. But I think, at this point, I’m ready to do it. Because, really. I would also prefer not to die.  And how much would it suck for Bill to have to explain to people that I could have had a long and healthy life, but I just couldn’t step the fuck away from the ice cream.

So that’s my new thing.  I’m going to try not to turn this into a diet journal, but it’s rapidly becoming an obsession.  I spend all day every day thinking about food and Points.  I’m acutely aware of every food I even consider eating.  Points work according to calories, fat, and fiber.  So the ideal food (low in Points) is low cal, low fat, high fiber.  And since that’s pretty much exactly what the American Heart Association says, I trust it to be pretty healthy.

But it’s interesting.  I feel a little bit like I have both more and less control over food at the same time.  On the one hand, I’m kind of a binge eater.  Especially when it comes to junk food.   Stress or anxiety pretty much always lead to  ice cream or cookies.   And this morning was no exception.   I  ate a  crazy amount of  ice cream this morning  because  I was  nervous about a doctor’s appointment I had this afternoon.   So then I had to enter it into my daily online log to track the Points.  Two weeks ago, I would have felt guilt, self-loathing, and probably self-pity.  But today, I just entered it into WW and figured out how I was going to move on.  Sure I used more than half of my Points on nothing, but I still had to plan out my food for the rest of the day and try to minimize the damage.  So my ice cream mishap is not going to lead to a cheeseburger and fries, it’s going to lead to fruit and veggies and whole grains.  And hopefully, I’m a day further away from that triple bypass that was looming in my future.

On the other hand, as mentioned above, I spend all fucking day thinking about food in a way that I didn’t before.  When I’m hungry, I no longer have the luxury of grabbing whatever’s convenient.  Instead, I have to think about the Points value and how it fits into my day.  Have I eaten enough fruit?  Vegetables?  Calcium?  Fiber?  How many Points do I have left?  Was I more or less in control when I didn’t have to THINK about it all the fucking time?

But most of the time, I’m glad that I’m doing this.  I think it’s a good idea.  Lower cholesterol, healthier heart and lungs, easier time getting pregnant (when that’s an issue).  It’ll be worth totally rearranging my life.  It will, right?  Never mind.  I’m positive it will.  Mostly.

This is my first post.  It’s really kind of a test post to check out what the different themes look like so I can pick one.