Write Away / Write A Way

The Gift Of Getting It

“Unfortunate News.”

My heart dropped when that email came through. Such wording can only mean one thing: Death or some other calamitous event.

I didn’t open it right away. Couldn’t. And then I couldn’t not, the desire to stay safe in my unawareness almost immediately replaced by a need to know. Now.

What unfortunate thing happened, and to who?

Intake of breath … and … click.

I scan the text and, not surprisingly, am met with the news of a demise.

Then, I am assured that, though unexpected, the end was swift and painless. That caring, compassionate hands bore witness.

I am told that people are available to talk to, either by phone or in-person.

And I am asked to be mindful not to mention this tragic occurrence within earshot of others unless invited to do so. To be sensitive to their grief as I process my own.

It’s a thoughtful message sent by somebody who has the duty to inform and to comfort even as she herself is bereaved.

The name of the deceased has brought me both relief and reproach. Relief for who it isn’t, reproach for allowing myself that moment of consolation.

The email came from the program director of the therapeutic horseback riding center my mother attends.

A horse has died.

It’s not one that my mom has worked with, or one she knows by name, even. But we’ve both admired her majestic beauty on the occasions we’ve seen her outside, basking in the sunlight. She had striking white hair. A radiant spirit.

I feel for those who have suffered this loss — both two-legged and four-legged alike. They are left to carry the burden of their own grief, and others’.

The program is populated by individuals with physical and/or emotional challenges, both adults and children.

For some, this will be the first exposure to death. Others will have past losses triggered. It’s a delicate situation, and one I can appreciate.

You want to protect people — especially those who are vulnerable. (You want to protect yourself, too, but that is secondary — a consequence of caretaking.) You know that you can’t. At least not completely.

No matter what precautions you take, somebody — probably somebody well-meaning — will do or say something that causes emotional upheaval. It’s inevitable. And so you brace for it, ever waiting, ever watchful.

This has been my experience with mom in the aftermath of my brother’s death. Those well-meaning but misguided people have broken peaceful periods with reminders that have shattered temporary reprieves.

Of course, mom’s condition — which sometimes, blessedly, allows her to forget — complicates things; few people understand well enough to adapt to her needs. Then, when the realization of her loss dawns anew, it’s as if the pain is as fresh as it was that first day.

Therapeutic horseback riding was the first activity we resumed after Ryan’s passing. We went back the very next week and, though I feared resistance, mom agreed readily enough. I think, even through the fog of grief, she knew that she needed the distraction. The absolute tranquility that comes with communing with a horse (or whatever your spirit animal may be).

Her team was aware of the situation — and they got it. They let her have that brief pocket of normalcy before allowing reality to again intrude. I didn’t have to ask them to do this. They just did it.

It was only after mom’s lesson that the program director approached and asked if she could give her a hug. Then, others did the same. It was a beautifully simple display of sympathy and solidarity.

They recognized the loss and honored it — but on mom’s terms.

This is not an easy thing to do, and yet it’s necessary. Caretakers have an innate ability to do what is needed, even when it’s not easy. Especially then.

I suspect mom and I both knew this, if subconsciously, which is probably why the program marked our first tentative steps back into the world. Gentle hearts greeted us.

It’s those same gentle hearts that are grieving today — and yet the needs of others take priority. The show must go on –and it will. Gracefully, as it always does.

These are special people. They get it. And sometimes getting it is the only thing that matters.

I hope they know that we get it, too.

JBV

Trying Times Are Times For Trying

“To try is to lie.”

This thought has been tormenting me for days.

Last week, I told you about a conversation I had in which I wished somebody a good day, she said she would do her best to have one, and then we agreed that, sometimes, all we can do is try.

Not long after, a friend messaged me to share that her therapist is fond of saying, “To try is to lie.” Or maybe, “Trying is lying.” Either way, you get the point. (Friend also said it might be time to find a new therapist.)

I made a quip about that sounding an awful lot like a “Cochranism” — as in Johnnie Cochran’s famous proclamation during the O.J. Simpson trial: “If it doesn’t fit you must acquit.” — and laughed it off.

But the idea has stuck with me.

Now I’m not a therapist. Or a psychologist or a psychiatrist. I have no degree or certification that makes me any more qualified to give advice (or ask: “And how does that make you feel?”) than any other layperson. I can’t have you committed not can I prescribe meds. (But have you tried Melatonin? It really seems to help my mom sleep. I’d recommend the Walgreens brand. In cherry). I am merely a student of life.

And yet.

One does not learn to walk or talk without trying. Or to ride a bike. Or read a book. Or do long division. (I could use a refresher on that last one.)

My point is simply this: Nothing gets done without trying. It’s the intent that matters. If you truly intend to do something, you will try — and try again — until you succeed. Or until you come to the determination that you are incapable of doing said thing (which is completely fine — unless said things is something of the utmost importance, like being a good person … or breathing).

Having said that, I can appreciate the therapist’s point (or what I assume it to be).

My guess is that he/she is not so much interested in making a blanket statement as reminding us that a promise to try can also be a crutch, and that it’s the follow-through that matters.

This, I agree with.

We’ve all used that promise to try as a stall tactic, a way to deflect uncomfortable conversations and unappealing tasks until some indeterminate time in the future.

For example, I often say things like:

I’ll try to buy less books
I’ll try to remember to scoop the cat box
I’ll try not to eat all the cheese

And nearly as often as I “try” at these things, I fail. But that’s because my intent was not true (or not true enough). My intent was not to do. Or not to do right now.

So yes, I either lied to myself or I lied to somebody else (or I lied to both of us — for shame!) because it was more comfortable, more convenient, to do so.

But that doesn’t mean that trying is synonymous with lying.

Right now, I’m on deadline for a feature magazine article. Beyond deadline, actually, for reasons that have less to do with me than to circumstances beyond my control. My editor understands this, and graciously extended additional time. I am trying to get the piece done.

While I haven’t delivered it yet, I will. I know this to be true because, despite life’s inevitable intrusions, I always do. And because I’ve faithfully been working on the thing. While it’s not done, it’s close — and it gets closer to being done every time I put in the effort of writing it and reading it and re-writing it and re-reading it.

Other things, obviously, will take longer. Like working through grief. Or developing and maintaining healthy lifestyle habits. Or paying down debt. But if the intentions to do these things are true and the efforts are consistent then the results will come.

“To be true is to do.”

I came up with that one, and I think our therapist would approve.

But I prefer: “To be true to your intent is to make your heart content.”

(Too precious?)

Because our intentions, so long as they’re honest, are the catalyst for action and self-affirmation. If we really want to do something, we will. If we really don’t, we probably won’t. And the difference lies in our ability to try.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an article to finish writing. And my intent is to try to do just that.

JBV

I Couldn’t Help But Overhear …

I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: Sometimes I like to listen in on other people’s conversations.

I’m not sure if it’s the writer in me — is there any better way to study dialogue? — or my training as a sociologist (which was obviously money well spent) or my innate curiosity, which some people seem to confuse with nosiness.

It’s a source of amusement and annoyance to my wife, who I’ve occasionally Shushed when she’s inadvertently interrupted my stealth surveillance. Like the time we were ensconced table-to-table at a fancy little restaurant in Port Jefferson, nearly sitting atop a young couple on their first date. The girl was quite striking and the guy was quite shy. And I was quite invested in how this coupling would play out.

Needless to say, I was not the world’s greatest conversationalist that night — or most nights. Sorry, honey!

In my defense, they reminded me of another young twosome, all dressed up and maneuvering through their first (unsupervised) date — a fancy dinner at a fancy restaurant surrounded by fancy people in their fancy clothes. She was quite striking and he was quite shy. And … it was us.

That was nearly eighteen years ago now, so the memories are hazy. Altoids. Averted eyes. Awkward silences. (In other words, not much to listen in on.) But also a goodnight kiss that hinted at the possibility of a future.

A marriage, a house, and two cats later, we’re the adults. At least in theory. (I’ll let you in on another little secret: More often than not, I feel like an impostor grown-up.)

Whenever we’re out in public, I try to keep in mind that there is no reasonable expectation of privacy. (There’s hardly that expectation at home, if internet ads are any indication.) If I’m talking about who I’d like to put through the woodchipper — just an exaggerated example, I assure you! — somebody is probably going to overhear and either report me to the police or offer to help.

But only if they’re separated from their phone long enough to be paying any attention to me, let alone their dining companion(s). Though I suppose the benefit of such PDA with our gadgetry is that there’s not much conversation to eavesdrop on.

The point of this — and I’m really not sure there is one — might be that realistic dialogue often breaks the rules of good taste and/or grammar.

Or that my life’s training as a sociologist and scribe would make a great defense to accusations of voyeurism.

Or that technology is both salvation and our sin.

I’ll leave you with this. As I was sitting down with my coffee this morning, I happened to overhear some commentary coming from a table occupied by four men, one of whom said: “When he said he was going to Italy, my first thought was that I hoped his plane would crash.”

I’m not sure what his second thought was — or if he had one.

By then, I was invested in a conversation between two employees about how adults nowadays use technology to parent. The twenty-something collegiate was incensed; after all, she wasn’t given a tablet until she turned sixteen. The elder employee agreed, saying her grandson couldn’t make it through a visit without asking to use her cell phone.

And then there’s the trainee who went to Agawam last Friday to meet the girl he’s been “talking to” online.

I’d tell you how I came to learn this — but I suspect you already know.

JBV

PS — If anybody happens to know what became of that Port Jefferson couple, please me know. My wife would like to put that topic to rest.

If I’m Being Honest …

Something unexpected happened last night.

I was at a local gathering of mystery writers/readers (shout out, MWA-CT) — and no, the fact that I was out of the house alone on a Saturday night is not the unexpected thing — when people started approaching me to talk about this blog. People who’ve actually read it.

I know this because they referred to specific things that I had written.

One person told me that she shared my piece about seeking joy in the aftermath of Ryan’s death with a woman who had lived long enough to bury two children.

Another person told me that she appreciated my honesty about my weight and body image issues, and said she wished her husband would read that entry.

A third person simply wanted to profess her solidarity in our search for the perfect pen.

(Speaking of pens: I am now scribbling away with my fancyish new implement — the one with the word WRITE embossed on it — but take comfort in knowing that my trusty BIC is at home waiting for me, should I need it.)

This both heartened and humbled me.

When I began this writing project — and I can’t define it any more specifically than that because their is no real vision beyond a daily meditation — it was intended for my eyes only, to exist comfortably between the covers of a notebook. The sole purpose was to allow myself an outlet for self-expression while honing my craft, and perhaps regaining enthusiasm for it.

And then, on impulse — and I’m still not sure if this was a good impulse or not — I decided to upload my first entry, a list of New Year’s intentions, to a very minimalist blog. I concluded that entry with the words: “Keep me honest, okay?”

Yet, outside of a very few friends, I didn’t expect anybody to read it let alone respond to it. But, virtually instantaneously, Facebook notifications began popping up — “likes” and comments from people who did read it and had something to say, whether it be words of encouragement or to sympathize about a topic and share their own experiences.

A former middle school teacher of mine who lost her son many years ago and is still working through her grief.

A friend who is struggling to maintain perspective in a world that so often seems to have none.

Another friend whose therapist believes that “trying is lying” — in direct opposition to my own belief that trying is often the first step toward doing — who said she may need a new therapist.

I was, and am, honored by this response. And a bit unnerved, if I’m being honest.

The reason for the latter is this: I was free to be completely unfiltered and vulnerable when I began. No critics. No judgment. No audience. Well, an audience of one: myself.

But now I know that there are at least a handful of you paying occasional attention — and I’m glad for it. Yet my purpose in writing this remains the same. It must, or I risk falling into old habits. Crumbling under the weight of expectations, whether real or imagined. What I’m saying is that the only validation I need is my own. (Sometimes I need to remind myself of that.)

However, I’ve come to another realization (beyond the awareness that I created this dilemma when I first pressed Publish.): While my experiences are uniquely mine, they are also largely yours because they are relatable. While the circumstances may differ, we all suffer unexpected losses and surprising joys. And we’re all trying to find our purpose, whatever that may be.

One of the things that had been holding me back from “going deep” was the idea that this story, told in fragments, is not entirely my own. It’s my mother’s. And my brother’s. And any number of others’. What right do I have to tell it?

But this is my story. It’s my truth. And my telling of it is simply my attempt to make sense of it. To honor it. To not be crushed under the pressure of internalizing it.

The external response has shown me that others, too, are trying to reckon with their truths. Their angels and demons. And that recognizing this quality in friends and acquaintances (or even strangers) might help them — and me and you — to do that.

We’re not so different, after all. Maybe if we spent more time sharing our stories — and listening to, and empathizing with, others’ stories — we’d feel a greater sense of connectedness rather than feeling alone and/or misunderstood.

So I’m going to keep doing this. For my own sake and sanity. Maybe you’ll do the same. Let’s keep each other honest, okay?

JBV

Chunky: It’s Not Just An Adjective!

It all began with a Kit Kat bar. Or at least I thought that it did.

My mom and I were driving to the hospital the other day when, without provocation, she turned to me and said, “Kit Kat,” with a gleam in her eyes that only the promise of junk food can elicit.

I had already promised her a visit to the gift shop after her therapy session — her first at the hospital gym rather than the outpatient center — as a bit of bribery to make our destination more appealing. Because who likes hospitals and all the memories they dredge up?

But the candy display, however contrary to the culture of health that hospitals supposedly promote, makes things a bit … sweeter.

So I assumed that mom had been internally debating her options and concluded that a Kit Kat bar was the thing that would remedy her anxiety and I assured her that we’d get one on the way out. That seemed to satisfy her.

I should remind you that my mom has aphasia — the loss of ability to understand and/or express speech due to brain damage — as the result of a stroke. Her verbal communication is significantly impaired, and this condition is further complicated by her varying degrees of comprehension. This has been a source of frustration (full disclosure: sometimes as much for me as for her), but one that we continue to work on.

The fact that she was able to articulate her desire for a Kit Kat, then, was a big deal. I always try to honor these requests, no matter how seemingly inconsequential or inconvenient, because I can only imagine the needs or wants that have not been met because they couldn’t be verbalized or otherwise expressed.

With our plan to conquer the candy counter firmly in place, we met Kassi — Mom’s Occupational Therapist of three years — in the lobby and proceeded to the gym. Kassi, despite having the frame of a toothpick, is a hardcore foodie who is always willing to encourage and indulge mom’s fantasy cravings.

“Kit Kats are so good, aren’t they?” she agreed. “Have you ever tried freezing them and then crushing them over ice cream?”

“No,” mom said, shaking her head emphatically, and then turning to glare at me as if I’d intentionally been depriving her of this pleasure. (Such is the life. At least mine.)

After an hour of activities — everything from push-ups and grasping techniques to arm stretches and shoulder massage — Kassi accompanied us back down to the lobby and bid us farewell outside the gift shop.

Mom, re-energized by the mere thought of sugar, walked over to candy display to assess. Nearly every variation you could imagine right there for the taking — including milk chocolate and dark chocolate Kit Kat bars.

But she kept looking right at, and then past, them and finally settled on a bag of … pizza flavored Goldfish crackers.

Huh?

(This is not actually all that unusual. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve gone in search of a specific something only, whether it be a menu item or a gift purchase, only to have her change her mind upon arrival — sometimes to her great satisfaction and sometimes to her deep disappointment.)

Yes, we got the Goldfish crackers, but I also had her pick out a Kit Kat bar, too (milk chocolate, for anybody who cares to know). She made sure to say thank you and she did eat the Kit Kat when we got home, but I could sense some underlying disappointment.

Sadly, this is often the case. Either the actuality doesn’t live up to the expectation or the expectation is somehow misguided to begin with. This is the crux of my mom’s condition (or one of them), and it sometimes leaves me as exasperated as it does her.

She seemed happy enough with her Kit Kat, however, and I let the matter drop.

I may also have looked skyward and thought: Gimme a break.

Several hours later, I decided to revisit the issue while getting mom ready for bed — a risky gambit that had as much potential to aggravate her as to appease her. But I wanted to understand. And, more often than not, I do — even if it takes as much luck as it does logic.

“You didn’t really want a Kit Kat, did you?”

“No.”

“But you did want some kind of candy?”

“Yes.”

On and on it went, like a game of twenty questions, complete with words and gestures and holy incantations.

Finally, I asked, “Is there anything you can show me that will help?”

And she dragged me over to the counter, where she has a sweets container, and pantomimed looking for something that was no longer there.

And, just like that, the proverbial light bulb went off.

“You wanted a Chunky bar, didn’t you?”

“Yes!” she shouted. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Nestle’s Chunky — milk chocolate with peanuts and raisins — has been an on again/off again favorite of my mother’s for as long back as I can remember, but not as easy to find as some candies. I had put two in her stocking for Christmas, and it was like somebody had bestowed gold upon her. They made it into her sweets container, albeit briefly, before finding a home in her stomach.

This confection, similar in shape to a Kit Kat but harder to say, had been the real object of my mom’s desire all along.

We practiced saying the word as we finished up our nighttime routine, and I gave my solemn vow that I would hunt one down the next day. She was giddily chanting “Chunky, Chunky, Chunky” as I turned off her light and shut the door.

The local Walgreens had four — and I bought them all.

A happy ending. We just had to allow ourselves to get there.

JBV

Freeform Friday: Words (A Poem)

Words

Have the power to heal

Or to hurt

To change minds

To galvanize action

To ignite flames

To bring people together

Or to tear them apart

To quell storms

Or to create them

They can illuminate the path forward

Or halt progress

Or even set us back

New beginnings

Stagnation

False endings

Choose your own adventure

But remember

There are consequences

Whether intended

Or by chance

What we say

How we say it

And to whom

The matter is words

Because the words matter

Make yours count

ALWAYS HALF FULL!

Let me tell you a story. A true story.

On Tuesday morning, I met my friend, the fabulous author Melissa Crandall, for one of what we’ve come to call our “Sanity Sessions” — basically, our makeshift version of therapy for the price of coffee (or tea, in Melissa’s case). We spend two hours spilling our guts, laughing like lunatics, and looking at each other with sympathy (or incredulity if the topic is family), and then promise to do it again soon.

But more on that another time.

What I wanted to tell you was that on Tuesday, after we had ordered “our usual” and were waiting at pick-up, we took stock of this particular Dunkin’ Donuts’ assortment of gift items. We often do this, as Melissa knows I own enough paraphernalia to decorate my own franchise. Hats, socks, tee shirts, Christmas tree ornaments. I think part of the appeal is brand loyalty and the other part an affinity for neon, processed cheese orange — which is as much my signature color as it is theirs. (Coincidence? I think not!)

As we were inventorying the merchandise, a tumbler cup caught my eye. Not only did it boast the Dunkin’ colors, but the message: ALWAYS HALF FULL!

If you’ve been reading this blog — and, for whatever reason, Melissa has been — you’ll understand why this spoke to me.

“You have to get it,” she enthused — and I knew that I did.

But we’d already paid and there was a growing line of undercaffeinated customers in line behind us.

“If it’s meant to be, I’ll remember to grab it before we go,” I said as I grabbed my coffee and sandwich and we proceeded to find a table, getting on with the business of making sense of our gloriously inglorious lives. Or attempting to.

Needless to say, I forgot all about the cup and drove twenty miles home. At which point I promptly remembered, as I walked in the house empty-handed.

Guess it wasn’t mean to be.

But then I immediately started plotting ways to make up for my mistake. I debated asking Melissa to meet me for another “Sanity Session” (though two in one week would probably have led her to believe some kind of intervention was necessary) or taking myself there to write rather than convening closer to home. But that would require nearly an hour in travel time. Meaning an hour less sleep and/or writing.

Instead, I decided to hold out hope that it would be there next time.

And then a funny thing — more curious than ha-ha — happened. I double-checked my local DD this morning and found one of those tumblers, coated in dust, among an army of other cups and mugs that I’d just picked through yesterday.

I snatched that baby up, blew it off, and proudly presented it to Judith, the crew member working the cash register.

“Oh, there’s no barcode,” she said. “I can’t ring it up.”

Is this irony?

Judith then suggested that I look to see if there was a second cup with a barcode. And, believe it or not, there was. (How I failed to miss not one but two of these beauties is beyond me, not that I’m suggesting some kind of divine intervention. Did I mention the dust?)

“Will that be all?” Judith asked as I handed it over.

Now, I’ve been buying the goods from Judith for years (and three days this week already). I never leave without coffee. So I’m going to attribute her question to the rigors of training and an expectation that employees stick to the script.

“I’ll also have a large iced coffee with regular cream and sugar, please.”

“We’re all out of large cups,” Judith said in a tone of solemnity usually reserved for breaking news of death and devastation.

Out of cups? Whaaa?!?!?!

“I can make you a medium,” she continued, eyes wide. Obviously, my face must have betrayed my distress.

“Yes, a medium, please,” I said, thinking: Isn’t that like offering somebody who’s been bitten by a poisonous snake a partial antidote?

Judith proceeded to make my coffee as I contemplated whether or not my new tumbler, with its message of perpetual optimism, was somehow mocking me.

“Here you go,” she said, handing me my medium iced coffee. “It’s free because you bought that cup.”

Always half full, baby! ALWAYS HALF FULL!

JBV

A Writer’s Enema

I bought a new set of pens yesterday. It’s a set of three, each with a distinct message embossed on it: Write. Create Edit.

This little splurge — my wife will tell you I am prone to these — cost $7.99. I’m not sure if the act of buying the pens was to commemorate this new commitment to writing or to break up the monotony of shopping at Marshalls. (That’s not a knock against Marshalls; I’ve simply found that I prefer my retail adventures to play out against the backdrop of a bookstore.)

Whatever the reason, these pens brought me joy in the moment — and will hopefully continue to do so.

And yet I sit here — here being a round high-top table at the local Dunkin’ Donuts — writing with the same BIC pen that I’ve used for each of these eight days since undertaking “My Year of Intentions. Same notebook, too. Both are rather boring but trusty.

Choosing these implements was deliberate. Crazy as this may seem — though I bet other writers will relate (and see how I counted myself among those writers, unhesitatingly?) — such things have derailed me in the past. Can’t write without the right pen, after all.

And don’t get me started on the agony that comes with first marking an unblemished notebook. What if my words aren’t worth the paper they’re written on? (This is the kind of thinking that leads one to have an inordinate amount of notebooks that remain empty. Or is it just me?)

It’s this mishmash of superstition and self-doubt (coupled with procrastination) that leads to creative blockages and cramping, at least in my experience. Which is why I’m hoping my unpretentious BIC pen and equally unpretentious notebook — and copious amounts of caffeine — will serve as a writer’s enema of sorts.

I’ll just let it all spill out and do the clean-up after.

In fact, that’s one of the reasons I chose the paper and pen method. It lends itself to immediacy and stream of consciousness, whereas the computer — with its options for backspacing, copy-and-pasting, and deleting — beckons to my inner critic (and he/she is hard enough to ignore as it is), which may result in more polish but at the cost of productivity.

Sure, my notebook is full of crossouts and misspellings (and coffee stains). But as much as that agonizes and annoys me, it’s not enough to stem the flow of progress — at least not today. Because that was the whole intention behind this project from the first: to write without worry.

Which leads me back to that pen set I mentioned. Write. Create. Edit. The order is not incidental — and believe me, I checked all the packages to make sure. Writing is the priority, and creativity. Let it flow through you and your pen. The editing will always (always!) be there when you’re done.

(A quick aside: If you’re reading this, you are either on a computer/cell phone/tablet/other miscellaneous device or looking over my shoulder — which is creepy. The creation of this blog was an impulse, not an intention, and its contents all come from my notebook. While there may have been a tweak or two in the transfer from there to here, there was no deep cleaning. In the words of Sweet Brown: “Ain’t Nobody Got Time for That.”)

JBV

A Prescription for Possibility

I had a short conversation the other day that has stuck with me — not because it was particularly meaningful but because … well, you’ll see.

I was at the pharmacy picking up medication for my mother. To further set the scene, it was early morning, pre-coffee. (I’m foreshadowing a false sense of doom here. We all know that I’m not at my best when un-caffeinated.) Rose, who usually works the front counter — and who usually greets me with some endearing version of “Hey Honey/Doll/Sweetheart” — was nowhere to be seen.

The woman who assisted me — despite not expressing her adoration or drawing a smiley face on the paper bag (as Rose does) — was perfectly lovely in her own, slightly more reserved right.

Our exchange went a little something like this:

Me: Have a nice day.

Her: I’m certainly going to try to.

Me: Sometimes that’s all we can do.

Her: It really does seem like that, doesn’t it?

Me: Yes. (Nods head affirmatively.)

(And no, this dialogue was not enhanced for dramatic effect.)

The point (and do I have one?).

This woman — let’s just call her “Non-Rose” — clearly acknowledged that she couldn’t control how her day would go but she also acknowledged that she would try to make it a good one.

I haven’t been back to perform a formal debriefing session with “Non-Rose,” but I would bet that her day went better than it could have simply by virtue of her open-mindedness in allowing it to be.

And that right there, my friends, is a prescription for possibility. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

JBV

The Weight of Being

Diet.

It’s one of the filthiest four-letter words in the entirety of the English language. And believe me, I know a lot of them.

With that caveat, I will now state my intention to begin cultivating healthier habits. I will not call this intention a diet. I will call it a … lifestyle change.

It’s one I’ve undertaken many (many, many) times before. Most recently, I dropped 25 pounds between August and November. And then I put on about that much in the wasteland (waistland?) between Thanksgiving and New Years.

Such dramatic weight shifts are not uncommon for me. I tend to be all or nothing in this regard. Meaning I eat all the food or none of it. And I drop all the weight only to gain it all back and have nothing to show for it. Well, except the stretch marks. (Yes, guys get them, too.)

This yo-yoing started the day I was born. I was a peanut of a premie and then a chunk of a child, and have since been everything in between. In the last fifteen years, I have seen the scale read 140 pounds and 240 pounds. I was happy with neither.

Now, I’d kill to hit 175 pounds and stay there.

But even if it did, I suspect I wouldn’t be satisfied for long. I never am. And just because I’ve had this realization doesn’t mean I know how to circumvent it. I could have told you two months ago that the holidays would be my downfall — but I was too busy stuffing myself with the holy trinity of Cs: carbs, coffee, and Coke.

I’m not sure what triggered my weight issue, or why it has persisted over all these years. What I do know is that body image issues are as real for men as they are for women. Or at least they can be.

With the exception of some facial acne scars, I will never look much like Brad Pitt. Or Channing Tatum. Or that Momoa dude with all the hair and the abs. Or any of those ripped guys who teat off their tee shirts like Band Aids, much to the delight of teen girls and their mothers. And don’t even get me started on the underwear models.

You will not catch me walking around in my boxers. Nor will you find me shirtless, whether in bed or on the beach. It’s not gonna happen — and it doesn’t matter what the scale says. On my very best day, you might get a hint of bicep. Or not.

Despite a bombardment of imagery that tells me what my body should — or could — look like, I realize that the underlying issue(s) is mine alone. I have never been entirely comfortable in my own skin, regardless of whether said skin was tight or whether my clothing was stretched tight over it.

I have gotten rid of entire wardrobes only to rebuy them with changes in weight. Now, I keep everything (it’s cheaper, and slightly less demoralizing). The size 30 pants and the 38s. The medium shirts and the XLs. In fact, I can gauge my progress, or lack thereof, by a single pair of jeans. Sometimes I can’t wear them without a belt. Other times, I can’t get them buttoned without sucking in and holding my breath to the point of near unconsciousness.

(Perhaps I should extol the virtues of the elastic waistband here. They’re super comfy, and you know you’re in with me when I don’t bother with the pretense of zippers or buttons.)

Right now, my jeans fit me somewhere in between those two extremes. But the reality is that I’ve let things go — the snacking, the sugary drinks, the extra portions, the eating out — and its taken as much a toll on my waistline as it has my wallet.

So, starting now, I intend to show greater self-control. Which means recognizing “enough” before I’ve reached “too much.” It also means finding healthier ways to confront my feelings. (Comfort food IS a thing, and eating has always been for me what drinking/smoking/cutting/(name your vice) has been for others.) And it means breaking the destructive cycles that have both buoyed me and broken me in the past.

This means:

No obsessing over numbers. I’m not going to get on the scale every day, or even every week. The accomplishments should be felt as much as they are seen.
No social media posting (even if that means certain Facebook friends will miss status updates pertaining to my moobs). While the encouragement — and, if I’m being honest (which I’m really trying to be), the validation — is great, it can also shift my purpose from an internal sense of reward to an external one while simultaneously feeding my fears of disappointing myself AND others.
No competitions. I am competitive, sometimes obsessively so, and have had great success with doing weight loss challenges with others in the past. But once the thrill of victory — or, occasionally, the agony of defeat — is over, I lack the proper motivation to maintain healthy habits for healthy habits’ sake alone.

I also understand — though I hate to admit it (or at least act on it) — that moderation is key. Maybe even the key. Complete deprivation gets short-term results and short-term satisfaction but isn’t sustainable. Why undertake a method that is destined to fail?

I know these things to be true and yet I fall into the same traps. (And we all know the definition of insanity, right?) So I’m going to stop talking about it — or writing about it, as the case may be — and start doing something about it. Because true health is as much as frame of mind as it is a body type.

Now there’s something to chew on …

JBV

PS — I hear that dad bods are in right now. I’ve totally got that going for me! You know, sans child. (All the paunch, none of the parent.)

PPS — Mom wanted to go to Denny’s today. I ordered a veggie egg white omelet. With a side of fruit. She had scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns, and pancakes. (I’m not bitter. This is called reporting.)