Fuck Off You Nutritionists

In one of my first posts, I alluded to my ill-fated trip to a nutritionist back in 2007. It was one of the more humiliating experiences of my life, mainly because I totally let it get to me and force me back in a destructive, depressive spiral, but it wasn't a total fail. Two good things came out of it. The first was a new found passion about where health, nutrition, beauty and women's self-esteem issues intersect. The second was my first long-form essay in years. I've gotten a few personalized rejections for the piece over the last few years, so I know I'm on the right track.

Here's a snippet of what I wrote about my visit:

On the day of the appointment, as the doctor, a small, bird-like woman with thin, pursed lips, led me back to her office, I told her my story of why I was there. Before the door to her stuffed, windowless office was even closed, she glanced over at me and said, “Well, you’re obviously overweight.”

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach and I tried desperately to pay attention, but my mind was screaming, “Obviously? OBVIOUSLY?” I could accept the overweight part. If you believe that the Body Mass Index is a scientifically sound way of determining someone’s health, then, yes, I have been scientifically proven to be overweight. But I knew that. I was more shocked by “obviously.” What did that mean? How obvious was it?

She asked me to stand on the scale, and I retreated. I was burning with shame and could barely concentrate on what she was saying.

“177.”
FAT.
“And how tall are you?”
Not tall enough for all this fat.
“5.7. Well, 5.6 1/2”
Just plain big.
“Yes, that’s much too high.”
Yeah, I know.

Any shred of dignity I had left disappeared. I sat down in her rickety office chair and let my mind wander into the familiar bad places, the fantasy places, as I was instructed to pick up plastic replicas of standard foods to learn proper weights and portion sizes. She knew I wasn’t paying attention and punctuated every statement with a condescending, “do you understand?”

What are you, fat AND stupid?
“And how much do you exercise?”

Here, I perked up. Finally, something I did right. I told her about my 25-mile bike rides on the rail trail and my yoga class. I told her about the running program I just completed and how I started running 5Ks.

“That’s not nearly enough. You need to exercise five times a week if you want to be serious about this stuff.”
I’m surprised you can even move around at your size.
I nodded solemnly. I neglected to ask what it was that I was being serious about. She pulled out a handful of photocopied colored sheets and detailed my new, healthy eating “plan.” It looked suspiciously like a diet, but she assured me that this was not a diet, but a way of life. She told me to come back in a month, when she expected that I would have lost at least five pounds.

I thought about Miss Huntyface Nutritionist a lot today. Earlier this morning, I was exploring some local graduate nutrition programs (read: slacking off at work). I have been fantasizing about one particular certificate program that specializes in Nutrition Communication, but I was looking at more structured programs and imagining what kinds of jobs I could have. Could I be a nutritionist? And if I was, what would I specialize in? All I know is that I would never, ever shame anyone the way I had been shamed.

Later today, my good friend, SKB, posted on Facebook about her own horrific experience with a nutritionist. I won't give all the background details -- it's her story to tell -- but she is one week away from her due date and was instructed to see a nutritionist after getting some borderline gestational diabetes results. Her experience was similar to mine in that it consisted of tons of shaming tactics ("only you can decide how much artificial sweetener is good for your baby") and bad feelings all around. My friend has nurtured and cared for her body (yes, that's a lame phrase, but whatever) during this much- wants pregnancy, and works out as much as anyone else I know -- she is not a sloth or lazy or stuffing herself full of fried foods 24-7. She's normal and tries her best to be healthy, like most other people I know. I shared my story and asked what the name of her nutritionist was.

DEAR READER, IT WAS THE SAME FUCKING BITCH.

Cue my righteous indignation.

If you look around the Interwebs, you will find all sorts of different definitions of what a nutritionist is and how it's different or the same as a nurse or dietitian or counselor. I like this one: A nutritionist is someone who specializes in the study of nutrition, including nutritional deficiencies, sources of nutrition, and nutritional challenges which may face individuals or communities.

When you treat everyone that walks into your office as an idiot who just needs the right amount of your "expertise" to change their life, you are ignoring all of the physical, emotional and psychological reasons why they might be there, what their history with food might be, cultural leanings, eating disorders, etc. I have absolutely zip, zero health training, and I know that. I also know that shaming rarely works. If it did, I'd be a size 0 supermodel by now and would never let processed food anywhere near me.

That's not real life. And I am rambling. But hoping to channel all my bile and rage into something productive.

Like a bag full of flaming poop. Or a mailed fart.

Am I Pretty?

I stumbled across Teaching My Girls About Beauty: What I wish I was told as a kid on Babble, and it obviously brought up a lot of my own shit about wanting to shield my daughters from this crazy culture we live in. I want them to feel everything – smart, funny, and yes, beautiful.

My parents were no slouches in the compliments department where intelligence was concerned. I knew that I was smart, and I knew they were proud of how well I did in school. I don’t remember my “beauty” really being discussed at all other than it being something trivial, like liking boys, and that I should focus more on studying. Other people’s beauty was up for grabs, though. I come from a long line of judgers and critics and the family get-together almost always included gossip about someone’s nose or someone’s fat ass or so and so losing or gaining weight. Even if people didn't directly talk about my physicality, I knew enough to know that someone would notice and that someone somewhere would be talking if I got too fat, got a bad haircut, had a pimple or did something with my Scorcese-esque brows. Someone was always trying some new diet or workout regimen so the message, or at least how I interpreted it, was that there was something deeply wrong with being fat or ugly and you should do whatever you could to work against that. So I got caught in the cycle, and my esteem for my physical self has always been for shit.

And then I got pregnant. Pregnancy, along with running, gave me an appreciation for my body that 20+ years of dieting and grooming obsession never could.

And then I ended up with all these girls.

Like the author, I feel overwhelming pressure to “ be the “perfect example.” As recommended by the experts, in that role I wouldn’t do things like criticize the creases at the backs of my thighs (otherwise known as cellulite) or my big (ahem, I mean, larger than average) butt, at least not in front of them. And I would do this all while pursuing my writing dreams as a working woman. All of this, I imagined, would save me from having the self-esteem issues of my girls looming over my consciousness … and perhaps save them from having to endure the unhappiness I once felt.”

Yeah, that’s working out great. I stare at my middle-aged baby pooch in horror while I obsessively moisturize, pluck, tweeze, and spanx myself into some work clothes while snarfing down my breakfast of champions – Cocoa Krispies and coffee. But hey, at least, I’m not SAYING I feel ugly. Good cover.

I know that I can say all the right things and that I can avoid saying the wrong things, but the absolute BEST thing I can do for my girls is to be the kind of girl I want them to be. And like the author, when they ask me if they are beautiful or pretty, I can tell them, “yes, you are, and so much more.”

Grrrls? Really?

Okay, I admit it. I am having second, third and fourth thoughts about that because it's reading a little lame. Possibly lame in a "yeah, grrrls is so lame, but once you get past that, she's really funny and has interesting things to say" way or possibly in a "the nineties? really?" way. I digress.

So for all you young folk out there, Riot Grrrl is probably just a term that you've heard about in your women's studies class or the interwebs. But when I was a wee thing back in high school, hating my life and working furiously on my 'zine (The Sphincter, if you must know) and reading Sassy, I stumbled across the Riot Grrrl Manifesto, and it opened my eyes.

It's twenty years later, and I still believe:

BECAUSE we are unwilling to let our real and valid anger be diffused and/or turned against us via the internalization of sexism as witnessed in girl/girl jealousism and self defeating girltype behaviors.

BECAUSE I believe with my wholeheartmindbody that girls constitute a revolutionary soul force that can, and will change the world for real.

Maybe that's why I started this blog -- because I'm still angry and I still want to be loud about it, and I really, truly believe that we can change things. What things? I don't know. All the things!

Animal, Vegetable, Pizza

File under: Your tax dollars at work. The Republicans continue to fight the good fight, keeping us all safe from unnecessary government regulations including those that might prevent disease and you know, help people.

Yesterday, the House introduced a spending bill that basically obviates the Obama administration's push for healthier school lunches. In the bill:

* Pizza remains a "vegetable." Under current rules, a serving of pizza that contains at least two tablespoons of tomato sauce meets the vegetable requirements needed to continue to receive government subsidies. The administration wanted to change that rule so that only a half-cup of tomato paste or more could be a vegetable.

* No need to increase the whole grains served in cafeterias. They need to be "defined" first.

* No to setting a limit on the use of starchy vegetables, so enjoy those fries kids!

The standards in the original proposal were based on recommendations made by the Institute of Medicine about the rate of childhood obesity and rising health care costs. The changes were, shockingly, requested by the frozen pizza makers, potato growers and salt industry lobbyists (they exist! things I didn't know before). I wonder who will win this one. Eye roll.

F is for Faith, But I Promise Not To Get Jesus Freaky on Your Ass

Or Anne Lamotty. Unless you like Anne Lamott in which case I will tell you that I really love her even though it seems kind of nerdy and hippie to admit this.

I go to church. I am active in a "faith community." It's a big part of my life, but a big part that I find hard to talk about because Church (capital C) shares the crap out of a lot of people. I believe strongly in God's will for me. I know this freaks atheists and other less spiritual folks out because they don't like the idea of things being predestined. I don't understand that because it's the part I LOVE as I clearly have no idea what the hell I am doing on my own. I like the idea that there's a story for me and that I'll be able to connect the dots later on.

I wrote my testimony last year, and I still think it's one of the rare times I was completely honest.

It’s hard to describe and put into words, especially in 3 to 5 minutes, what being here means to us. When people find out that we come here and that we volunteer our time, their initial reaction is usually, “YOU go the church?” followed by “Why?”
Mainly because I can be quiet here. I can listen here. Most of the time, I have a constant monologue running through my head of things I have to do, ways I’m supposed to be, things I’m doing wrong, tasks that need to be accomplished – a laundry list of ways I am somehow not good enough. Sometimes being here is the one hour during the week that I can remember and have some clarity about what I’m doing all those other things FOR. And really, what’s important.

I have been incredibly blessed with a beautiful family and good health and enough money, but I don’t always remember that. Sometimes it feels like we are living from chore to chore, but when I’m here, it’s like there’s a mute button on everything else and I can be still and listen to what God wants me to hear, that still-speaking God that I can drown out in my day-to-day life.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure how I'll be writing about Faith here as it's hard to separate it from the rest of me, but I suspect I'll try.

F is for Fashion

I like clothes. A lot. I like sweaters and dresses and shoes and skirts and coats and...you get the picture. I love shopping. YES, I know to admit to such a thing makes me seem like an uneducated mass consumptionist (or someone from NJ), but I love the happiness that comes from finding the absolute perfect outfit. If Love, Loss and What I Wore was not already the title of a memoir, I would totally steal it because I can remember almost all of the key moments in my life with their accompanying outfit.

I often have trouble shopping, though, because I am almost always an "in between." At my thinnest, I usually wear a size 10 and right now, post-baby, I run between a 14 and a 16. So I'm at the high end of "regular" clothes and the low end of "plus." Basically, I am nobody's fit model. Given my fat issues and unbelievable propensity for body loathing, this can make a trip shopping either an ecstatic high (Yay, I look hot. This fits!) or purgatory (I'm so disgusting. Nothing fits!). I've gotten much better about blaming the clothes and not my body, but not always.

The mission statement over at Already Pretty has always resonated deeply with me, and I'm hoping to explore some of my own fashion and style choices and/or issues here.

"Because when I started to dress in a way that made me look amazing and feel amazing, I finally stopped actively, continually, exhaustingly hating my body. And I immediately wanted to show other women how to make that connection so they could stop hating theirs. Most of what I write here explores how style impacts body image, and how dressing well expresses self-respect and self-understanding. My primary mission is to show that body knowledge gained through explorations of personal style can foster self-love and self-respect." -- Sally McGraw.

F is for Food

So once I started realizing that "fat" was mostly in my head, I knew I had to start thinking about the food I eat. I LOVE to eat. It might be my favorite thing in the world. I eat when I'm happy. I eat when I'm sad. I eat when I'm bored. I eat when I'm awake. I eat when I want a reward. I eat to punish myself. I eat. A lot.

And I really don't know how to eat. For the vast majority of my post-adolescent life, I was on some kind of diet and all of my food habits were learned from other people who were almost always on diets. We ate lots of carbs, but everything snack wise was low fat or diet or reduced calorie. And let us not forget Diet Coke, the communion wine of my family of origin.

A few years ago, I went to a nutrionist to essentially learn what I was supposed to eat. She basically told me that I was overweight and recommended a diet. #MedicalCommunityFAIL.

Then I started reading. I got very into Michael Pollan for a while, but then realized that I am not really a slow food, kill my own animal and cure it kind of person. I am more of a Open That Box and Eat From It Standing Up person. "Real" food tastes weird to me. Like, why would I want to whip my own cream when I can have Cool Whip? Alice Waters just died a little.

I know this is wrong, or well, not good. I'm not doing my body any favors, and one thing I've learned as a pseudo athlete is that shitty food makes you perform shitty. Then a friend recommended Marion Nestle's What To Eat, and I fell in love. The book walks you through each supermarket section and provides sensible advice about what is nutritious and healthy. It's this book that got me interested in food politics and how food industry lobbyists are rewriting nutrition standards in their best interests. It's the book, and Nestle's blog, Food Politics, that inspired me to write about this stuff.

F is for Fat

I am fat. Maybe yes. Maybe no. I have learned not to trust my expertise on matters of my own fatness or lack of. Essentially, I am seriously fucked in this area.

Stats (since I understand these are important when writing about fat): I am 5 ft, 6 inches. My pre-pregnancies weight that I'm fairly close to again is 177 lbs. That gives me a BMI squarely in the middle of "overweight."

I have spent so long – almost as far back as memory goes -- obsessing about fat in some way. Being fat, not being fat, obsessing about getting fat, obsessing about getting fat AGAIN, afraid of fat, how [insert X] makes me look fat, how I am so much fatter than X. I spent, and to some extent, still spend, endless hours wondering what my life would be like if I were less fat or less afraid of being fat, but I’m not sure I even know what being thin means. I don’t know how to define it, and I’m not sure I’d even know what it was when I got there. I have my own fantasy of being thin, and in this fantasy, I’m not just a smaller version of myself – I’m not me; I am someone else completely.

In my fantasy, I am cool. So unbelievably cool that everyone secretly wants to be me. Not the cheerleaders and the student government popular kids, of course. They would still think I’m a loser. But I would be a patron saint for all the freaks and outcast – the weird kids with black clothes and clove cigarettes, pink hair, all the musicians, the poets, the gay boys and the artists. They would all know I was special. And then there would be that one popular kid – just like in an ABC After School Special – who felt guilty about being such a shit, and after initial distrust and disdain, we’d become great friends and mosh together at the school dance. Apparently, I’m still in high school when I’m thin.

But this coolness transcends time and place. When I’m thin, I have a great career that I like and that people understand. Even more stunning is how laid back and not worried I am. I am quirky, and I delightedly just roll with the punches. I am definitely not neurotic, and I do not have a “process” for everything. I have no idea what it means to be efficient with a capital E. I just roll with it, man.

When I am thin, I am no longer introverted. I am goddamn jolly and busy myself with the tons of acquaintances I’ve picked up along the way – people I’ve chatted up in bookstores, coffee shops, on the T. I own the room, not matter what I’m wearing. I am CONFIDENT.

There’s no big reveal here, no great surprise at the end of the mystery novel. None of this – absolutely nothing in this fantasy – has anything to do with being thin. It all has everything to do with being me. I, and presumably everyone else who funds the billion dollar diet industry, fantasize that being thin – or thinner – will magically transform me into an amazing new person. I’ll shed a few pounds, tear off the gift wrap, and there will be a shiny and sparkly new me with a brilliant new personality.

I still struggle with this a lot. I know what a bunch of horse shit it is, and it's partially why I read and write a lot about fat "issues" -- I'm still trying to figure it out day to day.

That’s a Lot of Fs…Or How I Got Here

So I took this class. Those of you that have followed me over at Like Seriously through the years know that I’ve been grappling with my career for, oh, decades now, and it wouldn’t really surprise you that I would end up in something as cheesy sounding as “Working on Purpose: An environment for reviewing our work and lives, considering some purposeful possibilities, and composing some next steps for ‘working on purpose.’” It’s where I am in my life. Huddled up in the self-help section trying to figure out what the fuck I’m doing.

During the class, we were invited to look at times where we felt we were “on purpose” and times when we felt energized. We also had to look at times we felt depleted. SHOCKINGLY, I don’t feel very ‘on purpose’ at my day job. I feel depleted and depressed and stupid most of the time. The times when I do feel “on purpose” are when I’m working with a team or writing or generally getting involved in something larger than my little world. I don’t know what is going to happen with that day job. I have some big decisions to make there, but one thing that became super clear during Working on Purpose, is that there is other “work” that has nothing to do with my job.

We had a brainstorm session where we wrote down what kinds of jobs or work we could do before all the negative voices set in. I did this earlier this year, but this time, I attempted being serious for a second. Some of my items:
• Owner of plus-sized consignment store
• Trainer for plus-sized runners/athletes
• Columnist – girls, family, body image
• Comedian
• Speaker – nutrition, food politics
• Blogger – nutrition, food politics, body image
• Obesity researcher
• Magazine writer
• Healthcare PR
• Personal shopper
• Organizer

You see where this is going, right? You look at the themes, see if there are any connections, etc. What’s driving all of it and why would I choose them? Sure, I am interested in all of these topics, but why?

I am driven by an overwhelming desire to make sure that my daughters don’t shrink. I shrank, my friends shrank, and I am in the process of watching my middle schooler shrink before my eyes. I don’t mean losing weight. I mean losing that self-confidence that makes you feel like you can kick the world’s ass on any given day. I mean falling victim to what this culture says girls can and can’t do. I want my girls to make their own mistakes and I am certainly leary of any parent that says they want to protect their kids from all danger, but I want to give my kids enough air cover to tell the world to fuck off.

I’m also driven to be one of many. Being all alienated in black and smoking clove cigarettes and listening to the Smiths worked for me when I was sixteen, but not so much now. I have to work hard to find other “athletes” with the same issues as me and even as a relatively “normal-sized” person, I have to work hard to find clothes. It’s an esteem killer and makes me wonder why I even bother. But when I run with other big runners or find a clothing manufacturer that works for me, holy crap, it’s amazing. And I want everyone to know.

There’s other ugly connections like my anal-retentive desire to ORGANIZE ALL THE THINGS and to control and tell people what to do, but I prefer to keep this positive.

Then we get to the part where I am almost always stall out – what do I do about it? My “purpose” wasn’t really surprising to me, as I’ve been zeroing in on these topics for a while now, but I always get caught up in what happens next. I get all hopped up on changing my life and the world and then the reality of a middle management job in IT and never ending diaper changing and bills and Screw This I’m Going to Just Watch The Kardashians sets in. And then I don’t do anything.

So this is my thing. A thing I can do. My commitment, if you will. I’m going to write about a few select topics that I think will help me find my purpose: Food, Fat, Faith, Fashion. And then we’ll see what happens next.