Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

Sure, I’m back from my weary journey to the land of OL — 15 or so pounds back — but it’s a long and winding road, isn’t it?

Just making little changes lately. You know, trying to cut back on white rice, eat fewer cookies, order the fish now and again, that sort of thing.

And I’m down 3 kilos, according to the scale on the 5th floor.

Not that I totally know what 3 kilos means, except that — according to a multiplication of 2.20462262 — I should no longer be OL.

Little stuff. The health equivalent of pennies in a piggy bank.

When I found out my dad was in the ER, I took 6 pieces of chocolate, went into my office, and shut the door.

But hey.

I’m on the couch, crying. It’s a weeknight so we’re relegated to the phone and he hates it when I cry.

“How could I have responded better to this?” he asks. He’s sincere, but there is a hint of frustration. “What did you want me to say?”

I think for a long time before answering. “I guess I hoped you would say, Great. What’s your plan? I’ll figure out how to help you follow whatever plan you choose. Not, Unless you do it my way, I can’t accept it.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” he sighs.

I know. I know he can’t. It’s just the way he is. And, he has been placed into the worst position that a heterosexual American male can encounter — girlfriend trying to lose weight. Poor guy. How does he be supportive without being condemning? How does he encourage without judging?

It may be that he just can’t do it. Maybe I need to stop asking.

At his request, I’ll be bringing my boyfriend home to meet my family this Christmas. I was surprised when he brought it up; on TV, the boyfriends always dread meeting the family and do so grudgingly. Also, on TV, there is a canned laughter track when the boyfriend disagrees with pop on politics and mom on religion and offers to milk the cat.

The man set about memorizing my family tree on our third date — and that’s when I knew he would be staying for a while. But, no amount of explaining to him what it’s like to be in a house with my 6 siblings, their spouses and children, dogs, neighbors, and a dozen other refugees of every stripe can dissuade him. He’s giddy with excitement.

No, my boyfriend isn’t perfect, but he’s wonderful. We’re going on a year and a half together now, and if it’s true that opposites attract, we could be the poster children for Making It Work. He’s content and I’m ambitious. He takes things easy and I just go go go. He is black and white and I am shades of gray. He is Mr. Abstinence while I struggle to delay my gratification in even the smallest of ways.

So, he finds it impossible to understand why I can’t just stop eating cookies.

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I get into QZ’s car so that we can go to the Felt Club show downtown. “I have a goal,” I announce.

She looks a little doubtful, and who can blame her? I sheepishly cough up some caveats. “Well, I mean, it might not be my goal tomorrow, but it is my goal today.”

“Proceed,” she encourages, but haltingly.

“I am going to lose 40 pounds before my PhD interviews.”

“And when are those?” Now, she’s checking her rear-view mirrors. A lot.

“In about 4 months.”

“4?”

I stop. I actually count on my fingers.

“Okay, 3. More like 2 and a half.”

“That’s a very ambitious goal,” she hmmm’s.

We change the subject and then arrive at the show. We walk together, past the artsy booths with hand-made fashions — not even stopping for the girl who makes the adorable jackets. We know they won’t fit us, nor will the screen-print tees or even some of the bracelets for sale. I like the wrist cuffs, but they’ll accentuate my blobbery arms. I act, though, like I’m not interested in them at all.

We take a break to eat breakfast. And lunch. It’s more than just brunch, since I have a huge blueberry waffle, 2 scrambled eggs, 2 full strips of bacon, and an entire pile of corned beef hash. Also, I have orange juice. It is delicious.

On the way home, I dig up a copy of Bust from the floor of QZ’s car. It features Beth Ditto on the cover, and who doesn’t love Beth Ditto? I chitchat with QZ about performances that I’ve seen on Youtube where Beth Ditto just got so into the music that she started stripping down. She just couldn’t stay clothed. She jiggles and jumps around onstage, flab a’flying. In all her glory. It’s awesome.

Beth talks in the article about how little she cares for what people think — and I actually believe her. She talks about how long it took her to break fat-girl fashion rules and start showing off her upper arms. She is unafraid. She is herself. She looks amazing in the photos — even the one with the ridiculous pink tights. I feel a twinge.

“Fuck ‘em,” I announce, dropping the magazine to my lap. “I’m just going to be who I am. If they don’t want me because of how I look, that’s their problem.” QZ nods. It’s really the only possible response because, unlike Beth Ditto, I don’t really mean it.

I just wish I did.

Either the scale was wrong last week or I have lost over 13 pounds in the past 5 days. True, I have been eating better than before (though not perfectly) and have tried to get more sleep, walk the dogs more frequently, and take better care of myself in general.

But maybe it’s just indicative of how much weight was lifted off my shoulders when I was offered the new job. Maybe it was just the relief of knowing that things will be different now. Something that I’ve been carrying around deep inside of me seemed to pop to the surface and wisp away into the air.

Still, there’s nothing like empirical, visible, measurable success to give me motivation. I’ve decided not to look back — only forward from here.

A major change in direction, a sudden surge of goodwill toward the world and all mankind, a return of interest in my own thoughts, and I sit up, wide awake, at 3:15 a.m.

I let the puppy out to potty so she can sleep longer and then pull a stack of pages into bed. I have a midnight clarity about the article that has been accepted for publication. I recline comfortably, curled up with the snoring dogs, and make long red strokes through unnecessary paragraphs. I draw arrows and circle key phrases. Shift this, flip that, this section is unclear — go back and work it until it makes sense again.

I eliminate redundancy and inconsistency and the article once again feels solid — stable. It is ready to be seen by others in this new form. I pad through the dark, quiet house into the kitchen where I slice an apple and bring the peanut butter jar back to bed. These changes are good, and must be finalized. It is now 5 a.m. and I sit down to the final edit. I am not tired. I feel alive.

Crunch.

It’s not the solution to all of my problems. Not by a long shot. But, I finally heard from Potential New Job yesterday, and not a moment too soon. I was offered the position and, although it’s not a million-dollar salary, it is adequate. I am going to take it.

All jobs are stressful. I’m not an idiot — nor am I in denial. I know the new job will not be stress-free. What it may be, though, is a lot less pressure. I do not envision the same daily deadlines that have faced me every day for nearly 5 years at a government-funded agency. I didn’t know it was possible to feel like a factory worker as a therapist, but guess what? That line just kept moving and my work piled up over and over again.

This will also allow me to move to a cheaper neighborhood and (God-willing) take public transportation directly to my job. This means more walking or biking. And, for the past two days I have made an eating plan and stuck to it.

It’s no miracle cure, but things are beginning to look up. I feel relieved. I feel hope.