Detriment

Irrational. 

It's a word I found myself repeating over and over to myself on Saturday morning as I stood in my kitchen. I was being irrational. Completely and utterly irrational. Ridiculous even, and it's made me realize exactly how detrimental self-talk can be. You see, while I was making myself a piece of toast and a cup of coffee before I got ready to work out, I almost called myself that f-word that I promised I wouldn't.

You are not fat. You are being irrational. I shouldn't be eating this bread. Carbs are bad.

Just because you are eating something does not make you fat. Tell that to my squishy stomach. I can't believe I wasn't working out all last month.

You are not fat because you haven't been working out. You were busy. You can work out today and tomorrow. You just need your routine. Hmm, I was pretty busy... 

Working out today is not going to make you instantly skinny. It is going to help you be strong, and it will make you feel good. Working out today will make me feel good... and I need to eat in order to have energy and be strong.

You are not fat. You are being irrational. I am being irrational.

This, my friends, was the internal dialogue that went down in a pair of neon shorts while standing in a half-assed tree pose (otherwise known as my cookin' pose) in the kitchen. It's a conversation that once upon a time, I would have had out loud, in front of a mirror - until the day F asked me if he was "fat". It's a conversation lots of us have with ourselves and it's a conversation that needs to stop. I'd dump the friend or the boyfriend who made me feel bad about my body, so it's time I dump my own habit of doing it. 

It might sound silly, but self-talk is important. It's the stuff we do in the minutes before a date or an interview or while we're trying to keep ourselves together standing in the longest line-up known to humanity at Starbucks when we just really need that coffee. But as much as we make it through hard times by telling ourselves to breathe, we also tear ourselves down unnecessarily. Or at least, I do. 

Tell yourself how awesome you are today. Made it to work on time? Go you! YOU SHOWERED? Fantastic - go eat a cookie! Seriously, eat the cookie. Don't put yourself in a state of detriment. You're better than that.

The other F-Word

I have a potty mouth. Anyone who knows me can attest to that. I swear like a sailor in my daily conversations. Fuck is pretty well-used in my vocabulary. It's kind of like smoking - it's a dirty habit, but I can't help myself and I firmly believe that letting a handful of four-letter words fly from time to time actually keeps me sane so BITE ME.

But, as any parent will tell you, there's a handful of words you just cannot say around the wee ones (and by handful, I really mean truckload). I try really hard to watch my mouth around F because I don't need him dropping F-bombs and other four-letter words around the preschool class he attends. Except, at the top of my list of "bad" words isn't a four-letter word at all. I call it the other F word and it is a three-letter word. 

It's fat and this year, I want to work to erase it from my vocabulary.

Fat itself isn't a bad word, but we've made it a bad word. It's a word I use to berate myself. It's a word I use when I'm displeased with myself, and in the words of a very handsome hockey coach I know, "that's absurd". I am not fat, and if I was it wouldn't make me "bad". But I let it become a bad word, and I watched it rub off on F a few times last year. It's held me back from doing things I want to do. It feeds my self-doubt, but only because I let it. 

I'm not much of one for New Year's Resolutions. I think I used to be but by mid-February, I usually had let go of whatever it was I had decided I'd be doing that year. And that's OK. A year is a long time, which is why I'd be absolutely full of shit to say that I'm going to stop using the word "fat" for a whole year. That's not my goal. My goal is to stop telling myself I'm fat. 

For one month. Starting today. 

And in 30 days, I'll tell you how it went, and maybe (just maybe), if I've got another goal lined up for February. 

Happy New Year friends! 

Fat (part 2)

I am the problem.

I've been a part of many conversations bashing the media and Hollywood in particular for the skinny-obsession, and I've stood in a different light in lots of these. Sometimes, I feel like it's our job as individuals and as parents to remind ourselves and teach our children about the importance of healthy eating, exercise and body image. Sometimes, I want to karate chop the media and the fashion world for creating this skin-n-bones monster in the first place, but then I glance at my workout playlist on my iPhone and remember it's called "Get Skinny".

Yup. It's a thing. I dread standing on the scale at work, and yet it's become a compulsion because I'm feeding the monster (no pun intended...) that I hate.

"Please be less than..."

And I remember dancing around in the Gap fitting room because the 00 pants fit me, or the times I've skipped a meal (or several) because I felt fat.

I remember the times I've eaten something and felt guilty. I remember the time I let the word "fat" fly out of my mouth like a derogatory word, because although I'm an advocate of loving your body, I'm terrified of gaining an ounce.

I am the problem. I'm a part of it.

Fat is another four letter word to me, and it's one that I wish I could help my toddler unlearn. Because, like his Mommy accidentally taught him, F uses FAT to describe things he doesn't like because he's 3 and it makes perfect sense to him, just like I would use gross, ugly or smelly to describe something I'm not really feelin'.

But then, I remember the time that F asked me if he was fat, because he learned it from me.

So, we can sit around and bitch at the media and build a cross to crucify the media, and then force-feed a bunch of stick-thin models and actresses a bunch of cheeseburgers but that's not the fix. I love my Mom, and she's a wonderful friend and mother and role model, but she's also where I learned to stand in the mirror and say "I look fat". The world isn't always going to be what we like. We can't control every message out there, but we can control our own. It's time I change my message.

I caught myself in the nick of time tonight.

"What are you doing?" F asked as I set up my Wii Zumba, strapping on my belt and stretching a bit. When I told him I was exercising he asked why... and do you know what I started to say? So I won't be fat. I'm glad I caught myself, because that's not why I should be exercising, and that's not what I want my amazing 3 year old to hear.

"So I can be strong and healthy."

Because that is the type of child I want to raise.

Accidentally Anorexic

According to the National Eating Disorder Information Centre (www.NEDIC.ca), 1.5% of Canadian women between the ages of 15 and 24 has or has had an eating disorder.

That is a shocking number, especially considering that 10% of the population suffering from Anorexia Nervosa will die within ten years of the onset of the disease – the highest mortality rate of any psychiatric disease. As parents, women and society as a whole, we’re now realizing that children are learning unhealthy, “mainstream” attitudes towards food and weight at a young age – no doubt thanks to the fashion industry’s stick thin models, photo-shopped images and the rapidly shrinking waistlines of actresses and singers . At 25, I am acutely aware of my body image, my weight, and healthy eating practices. I also count calories, mentally beat myself up, have “I’m so fat” thoughts and consider myself to be an accidental anorexic.

How do you become an accidental anorexic?  you may be thinking.
 
It’s actually very easy, and you may have even done it before. It may have begun with the best intentions, a diet or exercise regime to help you peel off that extra layer around your tummy before summer vacation, or it may have begun accidentally through illness or injury. If you’ve ever lost a lot of weight in a short time, you may have experienced the wave of “holy cow, you look so good!” comments that boost your ego and leave you feeling a type of high that comes only from a rush of excitement and pleasure, and the next thing you know it's all you can think about.
 
I consider that feeling of "I'm so thin" to be my heroin and I experience it every time I try on an article of my clothing that is too big, or buy a size small shirt or size 0 pants. I hadn’t been either of those sizes since high school and I have totally lost myself into the obsession of staying tiny. It's an addiction in every sense of the word.
 My obsession began many years ago, as a pre-teen gymnast and swimming lessons pupil. Spandex onesies on the gymnastics mat and tankini-style bathing suits in the pool highlighted my pre-pubescent body’s rapid changes. By the time I was 13, I had mastered the art of skipping breakfast AND lunch and managed to survive. At 15, it escalated. My parents were either oblivious or thought ignoring it would be best – kind of like I try to ignore Finley’s occasional outbursts. I could control my food intake and I could control my own body.

Until I turned 16, skipped meals were the norm for me. No one noticed. No one worried.
 

I grew out of the bad eating habits and grew into myself, at 16, as a basketball player, member of committees and lead in the high school musicals. Life settled. Food settled. I settled. University saw a resurgence of bad habits and anxiety, self-loathing and body-image issues. It wasn’t until I found myself pregnant that I let go of the negativity I had held onto for so long. My body was incredible enough to support another human being: what is more beautiful than that?

Fast forward to January 2012 and I’m watching my life fall down around me as my husband and I separate after nearly five years together, but only six months of marriage. It was devastating, and instead of coping or grieving, I micromanaged my diet.

I exercised because I could control the expenditure of energy and it occupied my time and my mind. I drank coffee, ate salads and counted calories like it was my job.

My Irritable Bowel Syndrome flared up thanks to the overwhelming stress I was under, and the pounds washed off faster than you can say “separation”. Over 40 pounds lighter, I felt amazing but I looked sickly. I’ve put weight back on since then, and while I reasonably know that I needed it to be healthy, I still wish I was 10 pounds thinner.

At 5’4, I weigh in at 120 pounds. My Body Mass Index, though certainly not the best indicator of health, is on the low end of the normal range. The thought of weighing over 120 pounds sends me into a frenzy of shameful worrying. I know better. I don’t believe my value is equated to the size of my jeans or the number on the scale, and yet I’ve let that number knock me down.

The truth is that, even in size 0 jeans, the skin on my tummy is soft and a little squishy, it is painted with stretch marks and I’ve noticed a dimple or two coming on my thighs. My boobs aren’t as perky – or as big – as they once were and my thighs aren’t as toned as I’d like them to be but I’m healthy. I’m strong. Being 10 pounds thinner isn’t going to make me a better person. It won’t pay off my bills or improve my marks at school. An extra 10 pounds won’t make me a bad mom, or keep me from getting my dream job.

Not too long ago, the Canadian Women’s Foundation tweeted this alarming news: “In Grade Six, 36% of girls say they are self-confident, but by Grade Ten this has plummeted to only 14%.”

It’s time we change that. It’s time we change how we look at ourselves. It’s time to change how we look at our bodies. It’s time to teach our daughters that all shapes and sizes are beautiful, that healthy is beautiful. It’s time we teach our sons that a woman’s value is not equated to her physical appearance but mostly, it’s time we teach ourselves that.

Be strong. Be positive. Love your beautiful body.

Fat

Let me start by saying this: Reasonably, I know that I am not fat.

Actually, I am far from fat. But I have a lot of body hangups, as do most women I know. I often forget that I had a baby, and even though I slip into my size 0 pants every day, I often feel like I'm roughly the size of a rhinoceros. I try hard not to let the soft skin on my belly or the stretch marks that paint my stomach, hips and thighs get to me but every now and again it breaks me down and I stand in the mirror exclaiming words that I know aren't true, but perfectly describe how I feel:

I'm so fat today.

I promised Red I'd never ask him if I look fat - mostly because I'm secretly terrified he might say yes, but also because I think it would drive him crazy if he had to deal with my constant body hangups. More often than not, I keep the comments to  myself - mentally berating myself for my own perceived flaws - but every now and again, I've let it slip. Other than the fact that I'm beating myself up, it's never occurred to me that saying those words could have a profound impact on anyone.

Until I heard my beautiful, healthy, rambunctious three-year-old say "Mommy, am I fat?"

As heart-breaking as it is for me to look at beautiful men and women beat themselves up over the ridiculous idea of beauty that our society has created, it doesn't shine a light to the fact that my three-year-old could have possibly felt that he should ask that question.

It's the result of every time I've asked my mother, "Do I look fat in these jeans?"

It's the result of every time I've explained that I'm working out because "Mommy's fat".

It's the result of every time I've stood in the mirror and said "I'm fat" to myself, when I didn't think he was paying attention.

And it's not OK. 

I've become a part of the monster that I complain about. The monster that lets our children grow up feeling insecure about their bodies, highlights flaws and airbrushes over imperfections to create an idea of beauty that is impossible, unattainable and completely unnatural. It needs to stop.

Am I going to be able to completely eradicate my body hang-ups overnight? No. I'm not. It's going to take work, and I may never get over them. I may never get rid of that soft layer of post-baby fat that covers my belly. I'll wear my stretchmarks until the day I die. 

But I will be more conscious of what I say in front of those impressionable little ears, and that begins now.

Thinspiration

Skinny or Happy: Pick One.

This was the beginning of a shocking conversation between a good friend and I.

She chose skinny.

I stared at her completely incredulous. Really? I couldn't even believe it, so I asked her to explain her reasoning and warned her that she'd be finding our conversation anonymously written on my blog. "Well, I really want to lose twenty pounds, and I know I'll be happy once I do." Have I thought that in the past? Yes. Yes, I have. The reality is this: The size of my jeans doesn't make me any happier. It doesn't make me a better person, make my problems go away or pay my bills. All that being skinnier means is that I'm smaller.

Just last week, I victory danced in the Gap fitting room hallway infront of my Mom, my son and two complete strangers because the size 2 pants were too big. As I strutted out of the fitting room in the size 0's, I felt like a million bucks. "This is better than winning the lottery", I joked. Am I proud of my new physique? Of course I am - it took a lot of discipline and hardwork, (although, admittedly some of the weightloss came from an inability to eat thanks to grief and stress) and those pants made me feel really great. I joyously wore them to school on Wednesday, and excitedly told my uninterested encouraging father about the whole size zero amazingness. Only four days later, I looked in the mirror today and told myself I looked fat.

Wait a minute - my reasonable self knows that I am not fat. I've had a baby and wearing smaller pants now than I did in high school. I should be patting myself on the back and shouting it from the rooftops, but instead I berate myself and momentarily obsess over what I've eaten. My time, energy and certainly my sanity would be better spent on something productive, like cleaning my house or saving the world. As I tried to explain my stupidity to my friend she looked at me with what I imagine is the same dumb face I had on mine only moments before. No way, she swore. Not her. If she was twenty pounds smaller, all of her problems would be smaller too.

Finally, I gave up. She's sure that being skinny will make her happier. She also [hopefully jokingly] told me she'd be happier if I got "fat" again. I was never actually fat. I was 147 pounds standing at five feet four inches. I was hardly overweight. I think her saying that was twice as startling as her revelation that she'd rather be skinny than happy. Is that what we've come to as society? As women?

Am I happier now at my current weight than I was before? Yes - but it's not related to the size of my pants at all. I'm proud of the accomplishment, but it hasn't made me a better person. It hasn't changed who I am or made my problems go away. Truthfully, losing the weight has only gone to show me that if I set my mind to something and work consistently at it, I can accomplish whatever I'm faced with - but reasonably, I knew that before.