Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

Last time I visited my parents, I had lost 25 pounds from my starting weight. In contrast to the pajamas and slippers that I prefer to wear on travel days (C’mon. You’ll never see any of those people again…), I was wearing a cute, “slimming” (one of my least favorite words) blouse, a cute pair of heels, and had straightened my hair because I was to meet the two Rachels right after the flight. I sat in the airport, sketching in my journal and waiting for boarding call when a man came and asked me for the time. I scarcely looked up when I answered, and continued with my little painting.

Then, our flight was rerouted and we all had to re-check-in at the desk. As I stood in line, the man approached me again. He became very chatty. At some point, I looked up and noticed that he was not bad looking. In fact, he was sort of cute. And he wouldn’t stop talking to me. Then he touched me a few times — on the shoulder, the elbow, etc. — and called me “pretty lady.” He flirted nicely, without being heavy handed. He was just… I don’t know. Interested.

We were then separated, and I boarded the plane alone. I asked the greeting flight attendant for a seat belt extender as I do on every flight. She looked me up and down — slimming blouse, cute hair, recently flirted-on — and said, “Well, it doesn’t look like you’ll need it!” Of course, I did. But, it was incredible to hear.

Flirty Man and I re-connected at the baggage claim after the flight. He asked how long I’d be on vacation, and let me know his travel plans. I, having a boyfriend, didn’t offer him my number, though now I wish I had. He sensed my hesitation and didn’t ask. Boyfriend and I had just started the long process of fighting and breaking up. Flirty Man was cute. His name was Scott. He was an executive chef. Chefs are hot.

So was I, that day, apparently.

I’ve now gained back about 15 of those original pounds, and it showed on this week’s flights to and from my parents’ house. On the first, I had an aisle seat (my preference, since I can hang out any, er… extraneous body parts into the aisle until the food service cart comes by and not be such a hassle to the people seated next to me), but that wasn’t quite good enough. The young couple occupying the row looked up when I pushed my carry-on under the seat. They then exchanged a wordless look (which I’ll mercifully refrain from interpreting), and promptly traded seats with each other. This put the bigger, muscle-ier, wider male next to the window, and the slight, wispy female in the middle, next to me.

“Whatever,” I thought. I then engaged my seatbelt extender and proceeded to twist and contort my limbs in such a way throughout the flight that I hoped I would appear or feel or, I don’t know, smell less offensive. I also threw out my back in the process. Owie, and welcome home.

On the flight back, I realized at check-in that I was stuck in the middle of the row. Through the wonders of modern technology, I then learned that there were 4 similar seats still available on the flight, and one window seat next to an empty middle. Further investigation revealed this window seat to be on an exit row — which I’ve always heard offer more legroom — and, at 6′1″ tall, I thought that might be a nice compromise.

It was, until I realized two things:

1. The armrests in exit rows don’t lift up and out of the way of my fluffy, fat ass.
2. The window-side armrest was bolted into the emergency door in such a way as to resemble a forest fungus or otherwise awkward-ly placed ledge. It was superbly uncomfortable.

Is it really possible that this is the difference 15 pounds can make? On a 330-pound frame, does 15 pounds really make that big of a difference? Or is it just that I walked, talked, dressed, and acted like a thinner person? Was it my attitude that led to being hit on and complimented by people? Was it my attitude that led to my later frustrations?

How much of this is in my head? How much of it is in the airline industry’s corporate policies? How much belongs to the greater society at large and how much belongs to the power of my own positive (or negative) thinking?

I know that airplane seats are uncomfortable for all but the slimmest of folks. I know that I am not alone in this airplane problem, but it is a good illustration for me of the changes that have occurred in my body in the 4 months since I’ve been actively mindful about food and exercise. It’s not just the 15 pounds that have returned — it is my old attitudes and thoughts and frustrations.

I am writing from the airport, where I’ll be traveling back home to California after an unexpected family funeral. The last time I visited my family — in April (and documented here) — was the last time I was really “on program” with my eating. It’s cliche, but going home always derails me. My hope is that this trip will, well, rail me again.

My parents have faithfully followed their new eating program for over a month now, and are seeing some results. Mom has lost nearly 20 pounds and dad at least 10. He didn’t weigh himself at the beginning, but his belt now needs a new notch and his pants ride dangerously low. The part of me that is proud of them really is bigger than the part of me that is jealous and frustrated, but both parts exist.

The television screens hanging from airport ceilings are playing CNN, and CNN is reporting on Binge Eating Disorder. Ironic. Just as I sit down to reflect on my eating patterns and try to prepare myself for re-improving them, CNN jabs me in the ribs with her bony elbow. Yeah, yeah. I hear you.

Did I tell you that my therapist is moving? My therapist of 4+ years — 2.5 of which were spend in twice weekly sessions — is leaving the state. We have been in the long process of what we psychotherapists like to call “termination.” It’s terribly macabre, I think, to turn a business transaction into a metaphor for death and murder, but there it is. We don’t even call it “expiration,” which implies some passive, fault-free end. At any rate, I have been all over the map, emotionally, about termination with her. I think it finally all winds up in the first week of September.

Part of ending with her, of course, involves plans and recommendations for the future. My therapist works at an eating disorder clinic when she’s not at her private practice, and she has tried to refer me to that clinic before. Several times. It’s an “intensive outpatient” experience — just this side of residential treatment — and would involve a sizeable outlay of cash (which may or may not be subsidized by my insurance) plus 3-4 nights a week for 3-4 hours of individual, group, family, art recreational, and other therapies. There are nutritionists, exercise physiologists, yoga instructors, financial consultants, and dieticians on staff as well.

My therapist swears by this place, and has seen many people be able to turn their eating disorders around. I, for my part, am skeptical still. If nothing else, the money and time commitments are daunting. I’d have to stay totally on top of my shit, work-wise and budget-wise. I’m not sure I’m prepared for a close-up magnification of all of these issues. Not while I’m still trying to keep my own clients afloat, that is. I’m also not convinced that my family will be willing to participate in mandatory family sessions — and how would they? They are three states away.

These are the things that have kept me from enrolling in treatment there on the other times she’s recommended it. Now, though, I won’t have therapy with her, either. This means I won’t be paying her (and, since I pay out of pocket, this will free up funds, indeed) but I also won’t have her emotional support (which, I predict, will create a big void). Anyway, I’m thinking about it. More to come, I’m sure.

Of course, plenty has happened in the month since we talked. Here is a bulleted brief:

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