Fear of (weight or weight loss) Disclosure

A friend just asked me: will I post my weight or my weekly weight loss on the blog? Fair question. With no easy answer.

Because what my weight is or how much I need to lose scares the bejesus of out me. I’m a gal who is pretty darn open. I will crack a joke about anything; I’ll admit fault just about any time. I’ll poke fun at myself and be honest about who I am. But the weight thing. How can I explain it? I think my bungee jumping story sums it up.

That’s right, as I mentioned earlier, I bungee jumped. It was about 1993, I believe, and I sort of backed my ego into a corner from which the only escape was bungee jumping. I was planning a trip to Ontario, to do a travel piece for the daily newspaper I was working for at the time. I read somewhere that they had bungee jumping at a park called Ontario Place. Learning that, I immediately announced to anyone who would listen – co-workers, family, friends, cashiers, fellow train riders – that I was going to be bungee jumping from a 200-foot tower over water.

Now, this was at a unique time – wedged just between when bungee jumping was the new hot thing (about the exact time of my discovery and announcement) and the time that bungee jumpers suddenly began – one after another, making headlines by dying (about a day before my jump was scheduled).

So by the time I got to Ontario Place, cognitive Moira knew that jumping from a 200-foot tower with a cord around her ankles was not a bright idea. But egotistical Moira knew everyone back home – at work, in the house, at the store, on the bus – was saying “She’ll never do it.” Egotistical Moira is much louder than Cognitive Moira. So I had to jump.

But here’s the thing. The “tower,” once I see it, is really just a thin tower of scaffolding with a shelf of scaffolding sticking out at the top of it. Can you picture that? If I ever get around to having the video of it transferred to DVD, I’ll post it here. In fact, I’m gonna do that. But I digress.

So I see this flimsy “tower,” AND the iron ladder running up it and realize quickly: this is not so good. But I press on.

I sign up, pay my $100 (every 10th jump is free!), and here comes the absolutely horrifying part; the part that still scars me to this day: they weighed me. And then wrote my weight on the back on my hand in big, black indelible ink marker. There it was, no way to remove it (even by rubbing in some of the falling rain on my hand. Did I mention it was raining?). I could not ignore it, and the world would see it. Still, Egotistical Moira pushed on.

So I climb the ladder. Now, picture looking up a ladder that is at a 90 degree angle to the earth and is really just rod iron – and is being rained on. So what, you think, if you slip the harness they have tethered to you catches you before any real danger, right? Wrong. No harness. Just you, your hands and feet and each rung above you.

The good news is, the Lamaze breathing I never used despite having two kids seemed to be helping. I stared straight ahead of me – so as not to see below, above or worse, to my hand where my weight was written, and climbed. It took a good 20 minutes. Do you have any idea how high 200 feet really is? It’s the same as about a 20 story building. Climb that flimsy ladder, I say.

So I get to the top and the guy in charge of picking the right cord for my weight must have looked at my hand. What did he said? I have no idea. The moment was so truly terrifying, I have blocked it from my conscience. I remember his accent – it was like Ahh-nold Swartznaggers. he first wraps a kind of dishraggish towel around my ankles, and then the cord he has chosen for me. He loops it around twice and then through my legs to kind of catch it.

“That’s it?” I ask, and yes I am incredulous. ‘You vill be fine!” he says, and helps me hop to the edge. It took me some time to get up the nerve, but finally, with the Toronto Sky Dome as my target, I agree they can do the “bungee countdown.”

Oh, did I forget to mention that whenever someone is brave enough to bungee, they blow a horn and the hundreds –even more – of people enjoying the park all stop and look up and do a countdown? (one of my friends I’ve made on this trip is on the ground and, as the crowd looks up at me her heart swells with pride as she hears one guy say to another, “Cool, look, a girl is bungee jumping!” (I am woman, she thinks!) Until the friend responds, “I know, let’s watch! Maybe her shirt will fly up!” so much for girl power.)

So I give Ahh-nold the go-ahead and he waves to the crowd. The start the count and in my head, I count with them. “10, 9, 8., oh my god am I really going to do this 7, 6, 5, me and my big mouth, 4, 3, 2, 1, bungeeee!” I do an absolutely perfect swan dive straight at the Sky dome. I’m flying. And falling. I free fall until the cord is stretched to its end and then boing back up again – higher than I started (this is a surprise. In the end I bounce up and plunge back down about five times until the cord is exhausted.) they lower me into a small boat waiting for me, and the guy in it takes me to short. The crowd waits for me to stand on terra firma again. I do, and as they cheer, I make sure to put my hand in my pocket.

They might see my weight. I can still feel the panic about that to this day. The freefall? Not a vivid a memory.

So that might explain where I am at with the weight posting. I wonder if I will change my mind in time. I think not. Because I don’t think my goal has a number. Instead, I think it has a feeling. I’ll feel fit and comfortable. I’ll slip into clothes that I like from stores that I like. I’ll feel roomy even in a coach seat. I’m not sure a number can really sum that up.

Are you brave enough to share your weight or weight loss? Can you convince me to? Or does it even matter?

"Fierce Tennis" and Changing My Destiny

“Fierce” Tennis


I play on a traveling competitive women’s tennis team. I like to call it the Spoiled Upper Middle Class Women Who Have Time To Play In The Middle Of The Week League, but nevertheless, I love it.

I works like this: each team has three teams of “doubles” players who play first, second and third position. There are teams in all kind of towns around the state; just like high school sports we all have home and away matches and we compete for the league title. The League Title winners get a jacket; second place gets a vest. I’ve won the vest, but I’ve yet to experience the sleeves.

So yesterday I had a match. Away. At Cohasset. Now, nice as they are, the Cohasset women are more in the Very Spoiled Women Who Have Time To . . you get the drift. They’re good. Durn good. And we were on their turf, which is clay (takes some getting used to for a hard court team like ours).

I have a new partner this year, Terri. She’s really nice and a good player. She’s not afraid to dictate play and I like that (even back in my freestyle skiing and gymnastics days, one of my great skills was: I’m coachable. Tell me what to correct, I’ll correct it. Suggest a strategy, I’ll adopt it). That said, Terri and I have been on a brutal losing streak. I know there has been a win or two in there, but they are way overshadowed by our losses. Because you see, we haven’t just been losing, we’ve been throwing it away.

Let me explain. In women’s tennis you have to win two sets, each set the first team to six games, and always by two (if it gets to 6-6 you do a tiebreaker that defies explanation or logic). Every single match, Terri and I have crushed the opposing team in the first set.

And then tanked and lost the next two. And for the life of us – including a match our coach watched start to finish – we could not understand why.

So we were a bit, well, concerned as we took the court yesterday. Right away I saw that Cohasset had done some shifting. A doubles team that would normally play a slot or two above us was in our slot (some accuse clubs of doing this to win an easy point; take the better team and put them against a weaker team for a sure thing; let a weaker team fight it out in a higher spot) but I don’t think that’s the case with Cohasset. They are really rather nice.

So I said to my partner, who is not as familiar with the teams, “These guys are good. We’re going to have to play our hearts out to stay in this thing.”

True to form, we crushed in the first set. As we crossed over to start the second set, I looked at Terri and said, “Oh my. We cannot repeat history.” And then I errored away my service game. We proceeded to win not one point for the next three games. The old Moira would have started retreating. But I dug deep and said to Terri, “What is it that changes? Where do we go wrong?” She gave me some ideas having to do with ball placement, and I said, “No. We just have to be tough.” We almost came back that set, but did end up losing it, 6-4 (close anyway after that dismal start).

So it’s time for the third set and I look Terri deep in the eyes and say, with all determination, “We are changing our destiny.”

She quipped back, “Yeah because if we don’t, we’re gonna need a psychologist right here on the court.” But I really meant it. And adopted it.

I tell you, we killed them that third set. I ran. I lobbed. I grunted and hit fierce backhands right past their shocked – and still – racquets. I actually even dove for a ball (and got it!).

When it was over I felt strong. I know I’ve only started this life change a week or so ago, but my muscles felt better; my body felt more able and most of all, my mind was set on not letting a little bump in the road keep Terri and me from victory.

I wonder, now, if I can adopt that in real life. When it comes to eating, my “first set” is always great. I eat a healthy breakfast and stay away from junk all day. But come evening, I start to fall apart. I need to change my destiny.

Have you changed yours? In any way and any part of life? I’d love to hear about it. Inspire me.

A beginning

To start at the end of this tale would be too perfect; too absolutely come-around-full circle-and-be-totally-satisfied-by to really make this meaningful. What would my ending be, could I choose it first? Well, first, I’d be happy. Okay, I’m lying already. First, I’d be skinny. Not a Lord-her-thinness-makes-her-look-so-old kind of skinny. Not even a Tom-Cruise-forced-me-to lose-the-baby-weight-quick kind of skinny. Just a regular old shop-the-middle-of-the-rack kind of thin that the world once embraced and we all should feel good about.

But I’m not. I was, for sure. In high school, I was that girl with the really skinny legs, no butt and big boobs (yeah, I was lucky). I never remember having to think about food. I wanted it? I ate it. Exercise was such a part of every day that it really didn’t strike me as important (it was just constant). I was (and am) an expert skier. I could (and no longer can) do a back hand spring into a split on skis for many, many years. I remember thinking my freshman year in college, “If I just do one back handspring every single day, I’ll always be able to do that,” but something got in the way. Beer maybe. Laziness, perhaps. In any case, no way in hell my body can contort that way anymore.

I got married young (23 is young today, right?) and had kids right away. It was (and is) mostly good; we can talk about that later. In any case, each kid – and each year – added a layer to my life both emotionally (in a good way) and physically (in a bad way). It was hard to notice. I have always been a hard worker and I’ve never been afraid to shop for clothes that look good, no matter the size or department. I can still ski the butt of most females (and males). (I actually recently had a man say to me, “Wow, you are an incredible skier for a large woman.) I kid you not. I won a tennis tournament this summer after another skinny female player made a crack at me about how her doubles team should be called the “Young hot moms team.” I crushed them. Join me in the gym and I’ll always do one more set of reps than you do. It doesn’t make sense, my body’s ability to achieve through the layers, but there it is. And in a way, it’s hurt me. If I can move, I must be fine, right?

So in other words, life – or physics as it is – has let me sneak out of some of the troubles most overweight people have.

And then there’s that other problem: I love myself.

Or do it? Like any relationship, my romance with myself has suffered its ups and downs. But for the most part, I think we’re happy; me and myself. So why, one might ask, would I punish my body the way I do, allowing weight to cling on and stay forever? Why would I push myself up to the top of the size rack, then up the stairs to that other size department, then almost to the top of that rack?

And so, I must ask myself: why can’t you let me be skinny? I ask and ask. I start diets and fail them, quickly, dropping maybe 10 pounds and then, in a blaze of rebellion, gaining it all back and then some just to show me who’s who. I need me to be inspired. I yearn to be like Elizabeth Bennett, (Eat, Pray, Love) who, drowning in depression, was able to shed herself of all her requirements and roam the world to find her peace. But I don’t want to shed myself of all that. I love my kids. I have a good husband. I have a great job. People need me and I like to be needed.

So I come up with the idea. I’ve always been all about the show. I’m a bragger, and one who often talks well beyond what her game should be. It’s what led me to climbing – in the rain and untethered – a 200-foot ladder and then bungee jumping off of it in Toronto a few years back. I told the world before I went I was going to do it. When I saw it – and understood the pure stupidity of it; me with my two children depending on me and that tower looking questionable at best – I stepped up and said “I’m ready.” (I have video to prove it). When I was young it led me to hitch hike in bad places; to do more jello shots than anyone else in the room. But it hasn’t always been a bad thing. After all, my writing career is a product of it, and the gabillions of dollars I’ve helped raise for this charity or that over the decades are a bi-product. (PTO needs seed money for pencils? I’ll raise enough to refurbish the library!)

And so that leads me here, not to my ending (which while I’d love to predict, I have no idea what will be), but to my beginning. I’ve decided to take a public personal journey, one that will include eating better, exercising differently and hopefully, a trip back down the rack, down the stairs and to the middle of the rack again, where we all belong.

I’d like to ask you to join me, via this blog. I’ll try to post a few times a week; I’ve vow to be brutally honest. I hope we laugh; I think we might cry. In the end, I want to be fit. Let’s see where it goes.