just happy

it wasn't nearly this pleasant, but i sure do feel better.

sorry, guys. it has been one helluva week. plenty good stuff, plenty challenges, but i'm spending a little time away from the keyboard this weekend to rest mine eyes (and my brain). when your eyes twitch, that's your body's way of telling you to GO STARE AT A TREE, PLEASE.

i went to the acupuncturist on wednesday. one of the first things he said to me was:

"you've lost some weight since i saw you last. you're slimmer."

"yeah, i guessssss so..." i pause.

"it's not easy!!!" he says with great admiration, expecting me to detail my valiant attempts at exercise and weight loss.

"actually, i haven't been trying at all."

"really?" he's shocked.

"yeah. i think i'm just happy."

"huh."

can't wrap his brain around that one: A WOMAN WHO HAS CEASED STRUGGLING WITH HER WEIGHT. do they make those on planet Earth?

gratuitous baby pic of the week #... i've lost count.

tater tot has teef! a very big day indeed.

'tis my birthday.

me minus 27 years.

i am 33 today.

"the age Jesus was when he was crucified," The Cute likes to point out.

i'm spending it pretty quietly today. hanging at a local cafe, sending out some size ate p.r. emails, reading some Jane Kenyon poetry. later on, i'm going for drinks and dinner with a few friends. i was not feeling the big, sparkly birthday bash.

"where's your birthday tiara?" the Cute asked me yesterday.

"i'm wearing it on the inside this year."

i'm very very happy with my life these days. i told The Cute last night that i wouldn't change a single thing about my life right now. i do believe i am right where i am supposed to be right at this very moment. i don't mean i don't want more... bigger and better things, but i'm satisfied, pleased, thrilled with today and now and all of its blessings. i'm even dealing with the recent vicious outbreak of zits on my chin with relative calm. they just don't matter in comparison, do they?

nope.

but i mean, really. 33-years old and i still breakout?!?! not fair. i'll bet Jesus didn't have zits.

less hair = more me.

from a friends' blog - Twin Peeks. "C," by the way, is cancer (she said in whispered tones).

So in between laughing, I've decided that this should be a year of change. This is one of those things that happens either a) from age or b) after having "C" or c) perhaps a little of both.

I've decided to enroll in a writing course. I've only been talking about doing this for about, hmm, five or more years. I attended an open house at The New School last week and after talking to a seemingly suicidal poet and a chain smoking novelist, I decided I to sign up for Writing for Women's Magazines.

Last Friday, the day before the 41st anniversary of my being here on earth, I went to get my hair cut. The 2nd time in two weeks (far from typical). I opened a magazine, ripped out a picture and said, "Chop it off." B looked at me like I was crazy... Are you sure? she said... Yep. Get rid of it.

And so I did. I officially have short hair. Well, long short hair. Within the past three months, I've probably lost about 12 inches. In hair that is. And I can't tell you how good it feels. We all cling to our hair. Some of us hide behind it. Some choose to make a statement with it. Some wear it one way or another b/c a
boyfriend likes it that way. Some have no choice but to lose it. I decided that I put too much emphasis on it. Not that I don't style and slop some gel into it now. But I thought by cutting it, there'd be some Samson effect and my Bed Bath Beyond sheets would turn to salt or we'd fall into a recession.

Oh, shoot. Did I do that?

I kid.

Really, it was quite cathartic, losing all this hair. It's as if it had the anti-Samson effect. I feel that much stronger!

Many people have asked me, Liz, how do you think you've changed since this summer?

Well, I can't exactly put my finger on it, but, all of a sudden the little things like hair don't seem to matter. Less seems to be more. More seems to be a lot more. It's all good. Take it all with a grain of salt. Yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda.

My suggestion to YOU(!) is, do something today that you never normally do. Walk to work a different route. Wear green eye shadow. Eat a pomegranate. Make a concerted effort to make eye contact, smile and say hi to everyone you pass. These little changes will make a huge difference. Even just for a minute or two. I promise, you'll kinda like being hair, not there.

i chopped more of my hair off recently, and i keep getting closer to it's natural color. i too feel stronger, more ME with this lid. i may be less "pretty" in some people's eyes because i don't have long, wavy, blond hair, but that's okay. ME is better than pretty any day.

just so you know...

first, let me say how much it means to me that you all believe in size ate so strongly. with every email, every comment, you light the fire under my bum. a fire that does, unfortunately, occasionally peter out from time to time. i need the lighter fluid of your words.

but lately, i've gotten a couple of messages along the lines of:

what the fuck is going on with your show? why aren't you touring the world yet?

and my answer is:

i'm working on it.

i have a couple of tentative shows booked for the spring, and i'm working on more, but size ate is, in every sense of the word, a one-woman show. i have an administrative staff of one - me - and there is only so much i can do. sure, i could spend every free moment working on my show and getting it out there, but i also have, i am very proud to say, a LIFE, a life outside of my show and it's cause. i have a full-time job i want to do well. i have a boyfriend whom i love very much, and whom i want to spend time lollygagging with. i have amazing friends that i want to see and share chocolate bars with. i have a bed i want to spend long hours sleeping in. i have books i want to read. i have presents to wrap and errands to run. i have a LIFE! seven years ago, lightheaded and starving, i never thought i'd have one, and i'm not gonna take it for granted.

trust me, i spend plenty of time feeling guilty about not doing enough regarding the show, knowing that it's important and could help many girls and women if i can only get them to see it, but when the guilt practically overwhelms me, i stop and ask myself:

well, why the hell did you choose to get better in the first place?

so i could live my life, that's why. and that's just what i'm doing. my show is a part of that life, a part i am very proud of no doubt, but just a part, not the end all be all. not my raison d'etre. ya know, i can spend an entire day NOT thinking about eating disorders and body image, and that, my dears, is the whole point.

FREEDOM!!!

and here's the thing: if i don't fully live my own life, i'm not setting a very good example for those girls and women who are struggling to overcome their own eating disorders and body image issues. that may sound like a cop out, but i don't care. i didn't write my show and start this blog so i could develop a NEW AND IMPROVED! obsession. i did it to get over the old one, and to help others get over theirs. if i worked non-stop on size ate, it'd become an obsession, a different, less life-threatening obsession sure, but an obsession nonetheless. an obsession that would keep me from truly enjoying every morsel of this sweet life, morsels i'm not willing to give up, and neither should you. life is all too short for that kind of nonsense.

oh, so based on the contents of your brain, i think you'd want an empty shot glass.

sunday was The Cute's birthday. he had a little gathering of friends down at The Bleecker Street Bar that night. i made The Cute's favorite recipe for chocolate cake - Ina Garten's chocolate espresso cake - but i made cupcakes instead. i was desperately eager to use my brand-spankin' new Oneida cupcake carrier! a divinely perfect Christmas gift from r.

"that is so very Margaux-y," The Cute says.

at the end of the night, i'm enjoying my reign as Cupcake Fairy, walking around the bar handing out leftover cupcakes to strangers (i wish i could get paid to do this).

i approach the bar and offer the remaining two cupcakes to two guys. one is the bartender, and one, i determine by the girth of his forearms and his no-nonsense demeanor, must be the bouncer. they thank me, and the bartender returns the favor by offering me a free shot.

"oh, okay, but it's gotta be something girly and sweet."

"really?" the bouncer says. "something girly and sweet?"

"uh, yeah. why?"

"well, based on your size i thought you'd want something hard and biting."

a diet by any other name is still a diet.

how dumb do i look?

i rec'd an email this morning from the South Beach Diet website with the subject line:

STOP DIETING, START LIVING.

um... think they saw those Weight Watchers's ads and panicked?

i clicked over to their website to investigate:

The South Beach Diet is more than a diet — it's a way of life. "Food is meant to be enjoyed, even savored. That's what makes the South Beach Diet a lifestyle and what differentiates us from other healthy eating plans," says Dr. Arthur Agatston, preventive cardiologist and author of The South Beach Diet and The South Beach Heart Health Revolution.

ah... so it's an EATING PLAN, not a diet. i don't know if any of you have ever done the South Beach Diet, but i have, and it certainly felt like dieting to me. it's very restricted, especially the first two weeks. NO CARROTS, NO BEETS, NO CORN, NO POTATOES, NO BREAD, NO PEAS (among many others). it's not an awful diet - it's not all grapefruits or all cabbage soup all of the time - but again, i don't feel like it teaches you about listening to your body and it's needs. it directs and restricts and forbids, it does not instruct. you can read more about it here.

Because of Dr. Agatston's healthy lifestyle philosophy, beginning this month South Beach Diet foods from Kraft will be known as South Beach Living foods. The name change is a true reflection of Dr. Agatston's desire to encourage people to adopt lifelong healthy eating habits...

"My goal has always been to change the way America eats. Now I have an even larger goal: to change the way America lives." That's why he (Dr. Agatston) brings you South Beach Living foods from Kraft.

here, the ingredients in one of Kraft's South Beach Living foods, a Turkey and Bacon Club Refrigerated Wrap Kit (who needs a kit to make a wrap?).

Ingredients: OVEN ROASTED TURKEY BREAST - CURED - TURKEY BREAST, WATER, CONTAINS LESS THAN 2% OF MODIFIED CORN STARCH, SALT, POTASSIUM LACTATE, SUGAR, SODIUM PHOSPHATES, SODIUM DIACETATE, SODIUM ERYTHORBATE (MADE FROM SUGAR), SODIUM NITRITE, NATURAL AND ARTIFICIAL FLAVOR. SUGAR FREE STRAWBERRY GELATIN - ARTIFICIALLY FLAVORED - WATER, GELATIN, ADIPIC ACID (FOR TARTNESS), SODIUM CITRATE (CONTROLS ACIDITY), CITRIC ACID (FOR TARTNESS), ASPARTAME** AND ACESULFAME POTASSIUM (SWEETENERS), SALT, RED 40, ARTIFICIAL FLAVOR. **PHENYLKETONURICS: CONTAINS PHENYLALANINE. WHEAT TORTILLAS - WATER, MODIFIED WHEAT STARCH, WHOLE WHEAT FLOUR, VITAL WHEAT GLUTEN, PALM OIL, CELLULOSE POWDER, WHEAT PROTEIN ISOLATE, CONTAINS LESS THAN 2% OF SALT, LEAVENING (SODIUM BICARBONATE, SODIUM ACID PYROPHOSPHATE), CELLULOSE GUM, DISTILLED MONOGLYCERIDES, WHEAT STARCH, ALPHA AMYLASE, PRESERVATIVES (CALCIUM PROPIONATE, SORBIC ACID, FUMARIC ACID, SODIUM METABISULFITE), CANOLA OIL, TRIGLYCERIDES, ARTIFICIAL FLAVOR, CARAMEL COLOR, SUCRALOSE. CONTAINS WHEAT, SULFITES. CHEESE BLEND - 2% MILK NATURAL REDUCED FAT MOZZARELLA CHEESE (PASTEURIZED PART-SKIM MILK, CHEESE CULTURE, SALT, ENZYMES, VITAMIN A PALMITATE), NATURAL NONFAT CHEDDAR CHEESE...

no carrots, no beets, no corn, no potatoes, no bread, no peas... but distilled monoglycerides are just fine.

christmas constipation.

i had a wonderful christmas yesterday with The Cute and his mutt sidekick, Chicken. we opened gifts, and then spent the day lollygagging about (i lollygagged, he cooked lasagna) we had a sausage and cheese casserole for breakfast, and a cheesy lasagna with a side of sausage for dinner. they were both absolutely delicious, but next year, Santa, please leave some Ex-Lax in my stocking.
_____

a card from jibjab:

http://www.jibjab.com/sendables/view/mrqJVA4pyNGICGEuESTEUTvP

using our heads from this ridiculous pic from last christmas: http://sizeate.blogspot.com/2006/12/ufc-2006.html

hope your holidays have been happy and that you've been enjoying the attendant treats guilt-free!

"go on a diet diet."

i was on the subway this afternoon, looked up, and saw a series of signs running across the top of the car.

LIVE OR DIET

DIETS ARE MEAN

PEOPLE DON'T FAIL, DIETS DO

STOP DIETING, START LIVING

MAKE A NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION TO NOT GO ON A DIET

isn't that awesome! how inspiring! i wanna get on this NO DIETING train!

i was, of course, intrigued. i wholeheartedly do not believe that diets work. yes, you will lose weight, but you will gain it back, or you will spend the rest of your life obsessing (mildly to severely) about keeping the weight off i.e. you will develop an eating disorder. it is my opinion that dieting IS a culturally-acceptable, culturally-endorsed, culturally-encouraged eating disorder.

anyway, upon closer inspection, i realized that these uplifting little bon mots were ads for Weight Watchers.

Weight Watchers, these signs tell me, is not a diet.

bullshit.

bullshit.

and oh yeah, bullshit.

Weight Watchers IS a diet. yes, you don't count calories, but you count POINTS. a number is a number. i will admit that WW is not the worst diet in the world as far as diets go. they've made adjustments in recent years that emphasize the importance of fruits and vegetables and exercise, but it is still a diet. it teaches you nothing about learning to eat intuitively, about listening to your body and its needs. you can spend the rest of your life counting calories or counting points or counting pounds, but it is still counting, and it is still crazy-making.

and... AND!!!

they weigh you every week. that's seriously fucked up. this allows no room for individual differences in how weight is distributed, muscle mass, water retention and extra heavy pair of dungarees. even more disturbing, it's an almost guarantee that you will, at one point or another, go to your "weigh-in" and leave in a shittier mood that you walked in. why? because you gained A POUND.

i went on Weight Watchers a few years ago "just to see." (more bullshit. i wanted to go on a diet. i wanted to be in control. i wanted, on some level, to develop another, more culturally-acceptable eating disorder). mostly, what i remember is that our meeting leader looked like Vincent Price, and that i was hungry ALL OF THE TIME. i had close to zero energy. but hey! i lost 2 pounds my first week.

EUPHORIA!

when i came back the next week, i knew i'd gained the 2 pounds back before i even got on the scale. when i hopped on the scale, and the numbers revealed that i had indeed gained those two glorious, life-changing pounds back, my meeting leader WOULD NOT EVEN LOOK ME IN THE EYE. he was ashamed of me? for me? i felt like i was being shamed, tsk-ed, scolded for gaining TWO POUNDS.

"well, let's just get back on track for next week."

fuck you, i thought. i will not be back next week. or ever.

but it sure beats child abuse.

talking about our philosophies on disciplining children with my aunt, uncle and grandmother when i was in baltimore last weekend. my grandmother turns to me and says:

"well, margaux wasn't disciplined; she was just fed."

i don't know whether to cry or to thank her for this accidentally illuminating insight into the genesis of my struggles with emotional eating.

nice legs.

one of my favorite blogs is dooce. one of my favorite posts is this one.

i'm a big advocate of therapy and medication (if it's needed and supervised). i took Zoloft for a year, about 6 years ago. my general practitioner prescribed it for me after i had a breakdown in his examination room. i was there for a routine physical. i had asked his nurse TWICE not to tell me how much i weighed, i even stood on the scale BACKWARDS, and she still told me, loud and clear.

"DID YOU NOT HEAR ME?" i yelped between sobs.

i felt as if i did not exist. as if my needs and desires did not matter. and then, of course, there was THE NUMBER.

i don't even remember the number, (it had to have been pretty low, i was knee deep in anorexia at this time) but i remember i could not stop crying. try as i might, i was sniffling and weeping and sniffling and weeping. i was able to pull it together just for a few moments i can do this, i can do this, when Doctor L walked in. just as my doctor extended his hand to shake mine, my face crumpled, tears fell. i could not do this, after all.

i was already in therapy at this point, but had never considered medication. i just couldn't. medication is for weaklings. crazy people. not ME. i was a pull yourself up by your own bootstraps type of gal. it's in my genetics, steel threaded into my DNA. never feel sorry for yourself, never be weak, never be... human.

doctor L convinced me otherwise.

"margaux. say you didn't have any legs. you're on a street corner and you desperately needed to get to the other side. i walk up to you with a pair of legs and tell you you can have them, you just have to say 'yes.' wouldn't you take them?"

i took it for a year, and it did help. i ate more. i got my period after a year of amenorrhea. i became more social. it's taken me awhile to attribute my improvement to the Zoloft. at the time, i just liked to think i was getting better all by myself! (those damn bootstraps again) i remember feeling less stressed, less anxious, less angry. or maybe not less, so much as i just found i could deal with the stress, the anxiety, the anger more effectively, more sanely. fasting on steamed cabbage with dijon mustard for three days would not solve my problems after all!

they do say that you cannot rely on drugs to fix your problems, and that you shouldn't take drugs alone, but in conjunction with therapy. i completely agree. one way or another, you're going to have to hash out your issues someday in therapy, in a support group, somewhere other than in your sweet little head. meds just keep you from completely losing your shit when your realize how many issues you really have.

thought you were over that childhood trauma? yeah... NO. start over.

i'm no longer on any anti-anxiety medication. i just stopped taking it one day. (not advisable, unless you like numbness in your extremities. i should have gone off of it under the care of my doctor. he would have tapered the dosage to avoid withdrawal effects). i'm also not in therapy. but all of that is for RIGHT NOW. i'm sure there will come a time when i'll feel the need to return to therapy. i'm also open to the possiblity of taking medication again if need be.

i like crossing streets, and there are so many ways of doing so.

still sassy after all these years.

my aunt, my grandmother and i were on our way to the bus station on monday afternoon. i was leaving baltimore after a short weekend trip to visit the family. (i had a great time, by the way. slept like a rock, and ate like a queen).

i'm not sure how the conversation started, but...

MY AUNT: well, in the pictures, So and So looks like they've lost weight.

ME: oh, yeah. they have, and i think they've even lost more since those were taken.

MY 88-YEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER: well, i think looove is the reason Margaux's lost weight... that or SEX!

s'more of b'more

i'm going to baltimore this weekend. my grandma is there visiting my aunt and uncle. they live in glen arm, an rural-ish area outside of baltimore, whose rolling landscape is punctuated by red barns and majestic trees. there's a firehouse nearby that always seems to be hosting a pancake breakfast (two of my favorite words). i really love it there, even if i do get carsick on quick trips to the grocery store. cars go up and down and right and left. subways pretty much go in a straight line.

life there centers around the kitchen. the kitchen counter specifically. one might spend a few minutes lounging in the living room or watching football in the den, but one always returns to the kitchen counter. elbows on counter, chin in hands, watching life happen. i'm looking forward to sipping coffee and chatting with my grandma, eating ice cream while watching the evening news with my uncle rick, digging through recipe boxes with my aunt char, and breathing... deeply.

see you monday.

did i mention that she's a size 2?

how dare you have appear to have an ample derriere and appear happy in the same series of pics? shouldn't you be wallowing in self-hatred?

i'm sure you've probably read or heard about this already, but here you are.

http://www.tmz.com/2007/11/28/name-that-butt/

and check out the caption:

We know what you ate this summer, Love -- everything!

i'm not the biggest fan of her acting or her singing, but this is gross, gross, gross.

and i don't mean her ass, i mean TMZ's decision to post something like this and the litany of cruel comments that followed. i don't know why i'm shocked. i mean, TMZ and newsstand magazines like it put out entire issues devoted to the BEST and WORST beach bodies and it always horrifies me, and yet i always pick it up, don't i? (did i tell you that the head researcher at one of these mags told me over drinks that they put those "body" issues together when there is absolutely nothing else going on b/c they know it will always sell - specifically to young women? true.)

she has posted on her blog about this, but i can't seem to get to it. i'm guessing her server crashed from all the hits. here'sa quote from an article i found on aol:

"Like all women out there should, I love my body," the 28-year-old actress tells her fans on her blog, adding "A size 2 is not fat! Nor will it ever be. And being a size 0 doesn't make you beautiful.

The former Hanes model says that she has "sat by in silence" for too long, claiming women are unfairly subjected to criticism about their physique."I'm not upset for me, but for all of the girls out there that are struggling with their body image," Hewitt said. Hewitt, who recently starred in the CBS drama 'The Ghost Whisperer,' announced her engagement to Scottish actor Ross McCall in late November.

Despite her frustration, Hewitt has some words of encouragement to fellow women out there: "To all girls with butts, boobs, hips and a waist, put on a bikini – put it on and stay strong."

happy friday.

gratuituous "baby" pic of the week

my nephew tyler. the most beautiful 11-year old boy ever. just after a gladiator football game. he likes hip-hop and he loves to read. (click on the pic for a better view)

thankful

i am thankful for so many things this year.

the way the smell of Thanksgiving lingers in my apartment for days.

my pink velvet chair.

Target.

a job that both challenges me and pays me quite well (to be driven insane on a daily basis).

itsy bitsy Barbie shoes.

my niece and nephews.

On Writing by Stephen King.

i've learned to not only accept, but love, at least a little bit, my belly.

The Cute and his heart lattes and, well... just his heart.

i used to be good about keeping a daily list of what i'm grateful for. i find it to be so very helpful in keeping things in perspective. i know we all know it, but you focus on the lack, and that's all you're gonna see (and probably get more of) ever.

some damn dog took a crap on my shoe! look at this pile of shit on my shoe! my shoes are totally ruined, and now, so is my life! all because of this pile of shit! and there is no one here to help me clean it up! i am alone and stinky, and it will never ever get better!

meanwhile, there's a pile of treasure sparkling in the sunlight two feet away that i have completely forgotten about.

oh, that. but how can i possibly carry it all home with this pile of shit on my shoe?

today seems like a good day, the day after thanksgiving, to renew my commitment to keeping a gratitude journal (the name irritates me like the smell of English Tea Rose Potpourri but i'll deal with it until someone comes up with something less schmaltzy).

the daily grace!

adventures in gratitude!

the thankful almanac!

i'll keep working on it.

aren't they absolutely ridiculous? aren't they totally cute?

portion-peeking.

"that's not enough food for you."

he says, peeking at a co-worker's breakfast tray.

"it's all i want."

"well, it wouldn't be enough for her."

her meaning me.

i'm not sure what that means, and i'm not sure how i even got to be a part of this conversation, sitting there minding my business, but i know i don't like it. i don't understand why people find it acceptable to comment on another's food - portions, combinations, or otherwise. no one knows my, her, his, their needs more than i, she, he, or they. so zip it.

do not comment on the size of my food portions, and i will not comment on the size of your brain.

mom.

today is the 20th anniversary of my mom's death. she died of cancer. it started in the breast and metastasized to her lung, then brain, then liver. she died on a thursday in 1987. i was 12.

my brother played in the Valdosta High School football game on friday night. he wrote the word MOM across his taped knuckles.

to the funeral, i wore a navy blue corduroy dress with puffed sleeves and a white cotton collar that my aunt charlene bought me the day before. i didn't cry. i was tired of crying. i was relieved.

i ate macaroni and cheese at the reception. casseroles multiplied like Gremlins those first few days. high-carb condolences.

we had a guest book for those who "called" at the house. i thought that was weird. i still do.

we got a lot of sappy sweet sympathy cards. i hated those. i still do.

i'm not sure i believe in heaven, but if there is one, and i go there when i go, i imagine we'll be reunited. there will be no celestial fireworks. no formal fanfare. no white and wings and halos and trumpets, but running shorts and tennis shoes, her walking through the back door asking me to help with the groceries. Maizey, our golden lab, trailing eagerly behind her.

i've got bad hearing.

i'll be posting pretty infrequently for a while. work is a bit crazy with the holidays coming up, and i'm working on getting size ate booked at more colleges in the spring, so i won't have much time for blogging. and yes, there still is that latte-heart-drawing boy. he's still around, thank goodness, although i'm sad to say that the jig is completely up. he now knows how truly nuts i am. the other day (in my defense, it was the end of a very long, bumpy one) as i stood in the kitchen, he told me:

"wow. you look sexy, so tall and thin."

i burst into tears, of course.

what i heard was:

"you look sexy because you happen to look tall and thin right at this very moment, but usually you don't look sexy because you don't usually look tall and thin, so i'm not usually attracted to you. this probably means you'll eventually stop having these moments of looking sexy i.e. tall and thin, and so i'll probably stop being attracted to you at all, ergo i'll probably stop loving you at all."

what he meant was:

"you look sexy, so tall and thin."

men. so literal.

-----

thank you, lisa and nina.

http://lemongloria.blogspot.com/2007/11/weight-weightdont-tell-me.html

sage advice

i went to cleveland for my grandmother's 90th birthday party a couple of weekends ago. she's in amazingly good health. still sharp as a tack, still physically agile, still opinionated and unafraid to let you know exactly what she thinks. probably one of the reasons she's lived so long and in such good health. she doesn't hold it in. she just says it. in 90 years, she's never ever been wrong about anything. i mean it, just ask her. she'll tell you.

so, i attribute her long life to that. that and the one gin martini a day.

on sunday afternoon, most of the family had congregated in gram's kitchen to say their goodbyes. i hugged her:

"happy birthday, gram. i love you."

"i love you too." then, as the entire family looks on, she leans over to whisper something into my ear. i'm thinking she's going to say something to me about The Cute (who came with me, the brave, sweet man). what a lovely man he is. how kindhearted and how well he handled being surrounded by 30 of my relatives. and how do you spell his last name again?

"and i think you should brush your hair."

whatever it is i think i see becomes a tootsie roll to me!

my sister in law dressed up my nephew tate for halloween. desperately makes me want a baby so i can dress him up in adorable costumes for my own entertainment! i saw an infant dressed up as a Hershey Kiss once, and i had to stop myself from nibbling her toes off!

baby chipmunk tate seemed to be having a great time...

the same cannot be said for big brother grant.


he was a little afear'd of his Big Bad Wolf costume (to the neighbor's little girl's Little Red Riding Hood), so he went trick or treating partially costumed.


my halloween was no less festive. i dogsat for The Cute while he was in LaLa Land making music.


hope your halloween was happy and completely guilt-free!

'cause seriously, it is.

if you're looking for my very unimpressive bostini cream pie Daring Bakers Challenge blog post go to my new, non-body image/eating disorders related blog - everything i bake is brown.

eibib is just for fun. i plan on posting infrequently and haphazardly with flour in my hair and chocolate beneath my fingertips.

the body supposition

as i blowdried my hair this morning, my soft belly peeked out from beneath my t-shirt and said hello to my reflection in the mirror.

my gut reaction, was one of "ewwww. fat, fat, fat girl."

wow. like riding a bike that body hatred!

later on as i was walking down the street on this absolutely beautiful indian summer's day, it hit me: the only times in my life when my belly has looked the way that i think it should look - flat like the girls on the cover of Shape magazine-flat - has been when i have been either one of two things -

SAD or STARVING.

neither of which i have any interest in being anymore. at least not by choice.

so, this led me to the conclusion that i'm probably just not supposed to have a flat belly. that really helped me relax. i mean, doesn't it stand to reason that the body you have when you're happy is very likely the body you're supposed to have?

just a thought.

i'm sorry, but "anna rexia" would never have boobs that big.

Skeleton Costume includes Knit Dress with Glitter Screenprint, Headband, Choker Neckband, Removable “Anna Rexia” Badge and Ribbon Tie Belt. $42.95 at Three Wishes

wondering if The Cute would be willing to go as Beau Leemik?

(thanks, a.)

thought for the day

why and how would it ever be a good idea to have a Mexican food restaurant in an airport?

you're just about to board (with a bunch of strangers) a bus with wings. a relatively small, confined space equipped with a pseudo-toilet that doesn't really flush anything away and doesn't really provide a proper means of washing your hands. you get Wet-Ones.

and they think it a good idea to offer Mexican food. so much for friendly skies.

...and our profiles match.

my brother beau was here in nyc on business a couple of weeks ago. he is VERY SUCCESSFUL and IMPORTANT - you can tell by the way that he handles his Blackberry like a scepter - and he is my brother! he has always been very supportive of me and my projects, and his wife (hi, al!) reads my blog on a relatively regular basis. in the past, they've both jokingly pleaded hurt feelings because i seem to have a number of pics up of grant and tate, my brother lance's weensies, but hardly any of their russet-haired children. beau brought it up again when i saw him last thursday night.

well.

i'm punishing beau for that time he locked me in the closet. and that time he told me to not be one of those nerds who reads all the time because no one was going to like me. and that time he called me Miss Piggy, and that time he told me i was built like a halfback, oh no, wait... that was the other brother. and that time(s) he knocked the wind out of me. and that time he pinned me to the floor and dangled a spit loogie over my face. and that time he pinned me to the floor and dangled a spit loogie over my face...and it fell...in my mouth.

and that time he woke me up one morning, "Margaux, get up! You're late for school!" i hopped out of bed, washed my face, rushed downstairs, poured myself a bowl of cereal. beau stood there flipping through a magazine, watching me eat.

"Hey Margaux, what time is it?"

"I don't know, Beau. Look at the clock."

"Hey Margaux, what time is it?"

i drop my spoon, look at the clock in frustration.

half past...12 midnight.

oh...but...then...

there was that time when i was a baby, he patted me on the head, and said to my grandmother, "i wuvs that little creep." and that time he shared with just me the bag of hidden-from-the-children salt and vinegar potato chips he found in the basement. and that time in the 7th grade, not too long after mom died, when my perfectionist self wandered into his bedroom at 2am, weeping because

"i have three six-week exams tomorrow, i've only studied for one, and i can't possibly remember it all."

he hugged me, and told me to just be sure that i understand the concepts, then i can answer the questions in my own words. i don't have to memorize the information word for word. and that time he lent me money...and that other time he lent me money...um, and that other time he lent me money. and that time, when i think he heard me really sing for the first time. it was at his wedding reception, and we slow-danced afterwards. he looked me in the eyes, and said, "you've gotta do something with that."

so, for all that and more, beauzo. and because all of your children are just too beautiful and amazing and mischievous and bright in their own right. i can't imagine where they get it from.

tyler + chester

madison


ethan

can't tell we're related, can ya?

brotherly, er...love.

Included in the Pillsbury Dough family are: Poppie Fresh (Pillsbury Dough Boy's wife), Popper (son), Bun Bun (baby daughter), GrandPopper and GranMommer (grandparents), Biscuit (cat), Flapjack (dog), Rollie (uncle)

"hey, margaux, when are you doing your show again? i want to bring my sister to see it. i want her to know she doesn't always have to be skinny or tryin' to be skinny. she just had a baby, and she's all 'i'm so fat'... well, she is a little fat now. she looks like a busted can of biscuits."

<, =, or >

"hey, can i try these sneakers in a 9 and a 9 1/2?"

he snickers.

"what? is something funny?"

"no, no, i'll be right back."

he returns with the shoes, and before i even get the first one on my foot:

"it's a really great shoe. girls really like it because it makes their feet look small."

pause.

i say nothing. i'm looking at the shoe. it's cute. sleek. a little flashy in the way i like it to be (think South-Florida-Grandma). the toe, however, is a little pointy for my taste. who wants a pointy tennis shoe? he interrupts my decision-making process to repeat:

"yeah, girls really like this shoe, because it makes their feet look small."

now, i say nothing to this guy. i'm still angry with myself because i didn't respond with the irritation that i felt:

as in, "maybe i don't want my feet to look small. my feet are in happy proportion to my not-small body. i may not be fat, i may not be lumbering (this year), but i am not a small woman. if my feet looked smaller, i'd look like a Chinese woman with bound feet. if my feet were smaller, i would probably have a hard time keeping my balance, and this would make it exceedingly difficult for me to kick your ass."

no, i just nod and smile, and point out the features of the shoe that make it "slimming."

"oh yes, i see. it's a very delicate shoe. not a big sole, and it's very structured."

i'm such a pussy.

i wanted to scream.

it's not that i think this guy is a horrible person or anything. he's selling shoes. he says what he needs to say to get the sale (he did not get this one). i also get that many women (including myself) don't want shoes that make their feet look like oceanliners. what annoyed me was the insistence and assumption in his voice. the insistence and assumption that of course i want my feet to look smaller because i am a "girl." feet, that quite honestly and objectively, aren't particularly boat-ish in proportion to my 5'8" frame. by extension, it pissed me off because its the same insistence and assumption i heard in his voice that permeates our culture, whispering into every woman, man, child's ear that if you're a female, you must want to be smaller, daintier, slimmer, wispier. AND, it's not just your major body parts that must desire to be smaller - not just your thighs, belly and ass - but your ears, your feet, the circumference of your head, the girth of your ring finger.

oh my god, i can't believe i wear a size eight ring.

if you're a female, you must want to be less in every conceivable way.

i don't get it. i mean, i do. of course, i do. i've been trained very well. i still struggle with the desire to be dainty, but when i think about it logically, it really doesn't make any sense does it?

i mean, does the woman who takes up the least space win?

and i mean something other than the envy of other eating disordered women and the lust of insecure men.

fringe benefits

i went to valdosta, georgia this past weekend for a wedding and to visit my brother and his brood (grant and tate are his tykes. wowza, are they cute. having a cherubic baby fall asleep in your arms might very well be the greatest incentive for procreation ever. pics to come!).

the wedding was one of the most beautiful and unusual i've ever attended. my friend s married an Indian guy, so they had two ceremonies - a traditional Indian ceremony with s all decked out in a sari, bindi and henna-tattooed hands, followed by a 45-minute cocktail break, then a traditional Western ceremony, with s all decked out in the requisite Big White Dress.

at the uber-fancy dinner and reception following the ceremony, i gathered with a couple of my high school friends to watch the traditional dancing. as we stood there, my friend m turns to me with a look of blissful relief on her face:

"hey! i just realized somethin.' i'm standin' here trying to hold my stomach in. i don't have to do that anymore! i'm pregnant!"

oh, my aching bilateral dorsal anterior cingulate.

Fig. 1 (Friederich et al., 2007). Subjective anxiety ratings in response to images of interior design and body shape images (n = 16 healthy women). 0 = not anxious at all, 10 = very anxious. [NOTE: different results may be obtained in avid fans of Martha Stewart Living or HGTV or Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.]

Friederich HC, Uher R, Brooks S, Giampietro V, Brammer M, Williams SC, Herzog W, Treasure J, Campbell IC. (2007). I'm not as slim as that girl: Neural bases of body shape self-comparison to media images. Neuroimage Jun 2; [Epub ahead of print].

The aim of the present study was to assess the impact of images of slim female fashion models on healthy young women. Brain responses to images of slim-idealized bodies (active condition) and interior designs (control condition) were measured using functional neuroimaging in 18 healthy young women. Instructions encouraged the participants to compare their own body shape/own home with the one in the images. Participants rated the level of anxiety that they experienced while exposed to the images. In the active relative to the control condition, participants activated body shape processing networks, including the lateral fusiform gyrus on both sides, the right inferior parietal lobule, the right lateral prefrontal cortex and the left anterior cingulate. The level of reported anxiety during the exposure to slim bodies correlated with established measures of shape and weight concern and with brain activations in bilateral basal ganglia, left amygdala, bilateral dorsal anterior cingulate, and left inferior lateral prefrontal cortex. Brain networks associated with anxiety induced by self-comparison to slim images may be involved in the genesis of body dissatisfaction and hence with vulnerability to eating disorders.

so that's what's happening in my brain when i'm flipping through Vogue magazine at the nail salon, and why i feel like i should head straight for the gym immediately following.

from The Neurocritic

gratuitous baby pic of the week #3

it doesn't seem fair that i should have to share on my birthday.

my nephew grant mitchell laskey turned two recently, and in typical aunt margaux fashion, i forgot. i've gotten into the habit of sending birthday and christmas gifts about six months late. i am going to spend all eternity in Bad Auntie heaven...surrounded by hundreds of children screaming for juice, and all i'll have is a bottle of vodka.

one of the many reasons.

The Cute knows about my disordered eating history and my warped body image. he sticks around anyway. a few weeks ago, we were eating at the diner after The Police concert. he got the club sandwich, and i ordered a veggie burger and fries. we were noshing away when he stopped to point out that while i'd been very certain to specify whole grain bread for my burger (i did everything but write it down for the waiter), i'd removed it from my plate, and hadn't eaten a bit of it. i laughed:

"yeah, i know. makes zero sense."

i then ordered a piece of the double fudge chocolate layer cake.

this week, we dined at the same delightfully tacky diner before i left for my pal's wedding in connecticut. i ordered another veggie burger with fries. The Cute, a reuben. my burger arrived sandwiched between two giant white bread buns reminiscent of Princess Leia's hairdo. as i nibbled the mozzarella off the bread and put the bun's remains to the side, i pointed out:

"i didn't specify a bread this time cuz i knew i wasn't gonna eat it."

"well, couldn't you eat some of the bread they do bring you?"

The Cute. soooo logical.

"yes, i could, but i'd rather save room for the spicy waffle fries."

"ah."

"i have issues," i say with a shrug, smiling through a mouthful of spicy waffle fry dipped in blue cheese dressing.

he stops. looks at me with affectionate amusement.

"you have cute issues. TOO. MUCH. CUTE."

no double fudge chocolate layer cake necessary today. this boy is sweet enough.

happy might make my butt look big, but you're miserable and won't go to therapy.

the fucking dress doesn't fit.

the dress i was planning on wearing to my friend's wedding this weekend in connecticut doesn't fit.

there. i said it. it's not because i have two little zit scars in my cleavage; or because it's black, and i'd really rather wear something a little more cheery and light for a late summer wedding.

the fucking dress doesn't fit.

the dress i put on layaway, and i never put things on layaway convinced that if i can't afford it one one fell swoop, well then, i can't really afford it, can i?

duped by the exotically beautiful salesgirl that oozed:

eet is soo pract-ee-kal, you vill vear it all zee time. black eez so basic and vorks for everyzeeeng.

yes, i agree. black is basic, and it works for everything, but only if it FITS, dammit.

oh, it fits, if you want to be literal about it. i can zip it up, and it looks normal, but it feels completely uncomfortable. i feel like a trussed chicken: BOUND. i wouldn't be able to eat a thing, sitting would be so-not-fun, and forget dancing! and if a girl can't dance and eat at a wedding, why bother going?

i've put on a little weight since i bought the dress a couple of months ago. i'm annoyed. i feel a little dumb. i feel a little angry. i feel a lot ashamed, and why? because i've gained about five pounds. five pounds, margaux, not forty. feeling annoyed, dumb, angry, and ashamed over gaining five pounds...now, that's something to feel annoyed, dumb, and angry about.

particularly when i think about why i've gained five pounds:

i've been happy.

HAPPY, people.

i was more than a little sad for a few months there. so sad, and so heartbroken, that i veritably lost my appetite. that is, i can say without a doubt, the first time that has ever happened to me in my entire life. someone really should mark that down somewhere. etch a brass plaque and screw it to my ass:

IN NOVEMBER 2006

MARGAUX LASKEY LOST HER APPETITE.

because i am highly doubtful it will ever happen again.

i've never been one of those people who "cope" by not eating. "coping" for me, much of the time, has meant eating. not this go around. chocolate held no appeal. bagels, nada. ice cream, ehhh. cheese, pffft. i'd like to think this means that i've developed some new way of coping, that i just allowed myself to feel the sadness. i spent many hours curled up in a ball on my bed weeping. tears trickled down my face while i rode the subway home. i cried in the supermarket's frozen meats section. i wasn't scared of the sadness because i knew it wouldn't last. like all emotions, i knew it was temporary. i could go "there" without feeling like i'd never come back because i'd been to the abyss before and made it back. i could go "there" again with a sense of peace, so i didn't have to go to the refrigerator.

and the not-eating (not-eating much, i should say. i was still eating, just not much) wasn't about starving myself, or some fucked up, "well, if i were thinner, things wouldn't have turned out this way or that, this or that person might actually have loved me, and we could have lived happily ever after." nope, it wasn't about that either. i just needed to spend time digesting my emotions, not food. the ache in my heart overwhelmed the ache in my belly, and i just needed to give it its due.

so, there ya have it. i lost weight.

people started noticing. Friends Who Know expressed concern:

"i just want you to tell you that i've noticed that you've been losing weight."

co-workers shouted their congratulations across the office:

"you're looking good, girl!"

family members offered that familiar though confusing cocktail of envy, curiosity and concern:

"now what have you done to lose that weight? well, don't lose anymore... but you look great."

it started to scare me a little bit. i could see how easy it would be to step back into the hopsotch of disordered eating. with all of this attention and the loose-fitting clothes that i wore like sartorial trophies, why not keep it up? i distinctly remember being awoken in the middle of the night by hunger pains once during that time. it was a pivotal moment for me, and i think i knew it. i could stay in bed and try to go back to sleep, i thought, and choose to ignore the growls in my belly. if i keep it up, surely i would lose more weight, get more attention, feel "better," feel superior. i actually sat up in bed and said aloud to myself, "nope, we're not doing this. we're getting out of bed, and getting a snack."

peanut butter and graham crackers.

slowly, i started feeling better. i woke up one morning and realized i was no longer missing the dysfunctional rigamarole that had been my raison d'etre for so many months. i wasn't crying anymore. i was laughing a lot more. i was drinking a bit (sometimes a lot) more. i was kissing a lot more. i was dancing a lot more. i was happy a lot more. so, i guess it would stand to reason that i was eating a lot more.

so, yes, what this means is:

i've gained weight.

wow. i said it, and the world didn't crumble around me.

i've gained weight.

and i am still me.

i've gained weight.

and the people who loved me when i was five pounds lighter, still love me.

i've gained weight.

but - no, not but - AND, i'm happy.

the dress doesn't fit, but there's always another dress, and i really like the way i look in Happy.

and it will smell like peas.

paavo poops.

my dear friend n emailed me today. i owe her an email from about three months ago. i owe her a really long, juicy email, but truth be told, i am not an e-mailer. i'm not a phone chatter-er either. this makes it very difficult for me to keep in touch with those who i don't see on a regular basis. this includes grandmothers too. (heathen!) i am just soooo much better face to face. i can reach out and hug you, touch you, and as is the case with some of my family members, punch you if you deserve it.

i always resolve to be better about it. just jot down on my calendar days when i'm supposed to call l or a or n and then JUST DO IT. but i rarely if ever do. pox on me. as my mother would say, "margaux, you can't expect to get letters, if you don't send them." luckily, my pals haven't written me off just yet, and i PROMISE, dear n, to send you an update email soon. i can't just keep using you for pictures of your adorable, well-dressed, round-cheeked, German blossom baby.

it's a good thing i can bake.

the afternoon before The Police concert at Giants Stadium. The Cute was taking me. i was in the bathroom "putting on my face" when familiar strains of music came soaring through the apartment:

"isn't that sweet," i thought. "he's playing The Police, because we're going to hear The Police tonight."

i walk into the kitchen, blush brush in hand:

"you know, i was having a hard time remembering songs by The Police, but now that i hear them, i'm like duh, of course! i know these tunes. i love these songs!"

silence. The Cute peers at me from behind his rockstar ringlets:

"this isn't The Police, sweetiecakes. this is U2."

faith in photoshop.

pretty, pretty, pretty, faith hill. so thin and willowy, skin so flawless, waist so taut and cinched (even after three babies!).


and here's what she really looks like.

a very, very human, pretty, pretty, pretty faith hill.

click here to read all about what was done to make her look like an expressionless Carrie Underwood clone.

(thank you, amy. i will never be a particularly successful blogger b/c i'm the equivalent of your 88-year old grandmother when it comes to keeping up with the rest of the blogosphere. good thing i have friends who do!)

"no duh" would have been a better headline.

Study Suggests That a Need for Physical Perfection May Reveal Emotional Flaws

no kidding.

if it takes a scientific study to get plastic surgeons to psychologically screen their patients, or even just be more aware of their patients' emotional well-being, great. i just find it funny that this study is presented as something revelatory and new.

i've been living it for most of my life.

we're not all rushing to the doctor for a pug nose or a pair of immovable boobs, but in varying degrees, haven't most of us spent oodles of time and money trying to fulfill our "need for physical perfection?"

time and money that would have been better spent on therapy.

in the flo.

the first day of aunt flo's visit is never fun.

swollen. crampy. soooooooooo tired.

my silhouette changes. i've never been oklahoma, but i become kentucky.

strangely, i've sort of grown to like it though. for reasons beyond the obvious:

1. i'm not pregnant!

2. i'm not menopausal!

3. i'm not dead!

i like these first couple of days of my period because i find i cannot be bothered. my standard reaction to all things on days like today can be summed up in one word:

WHATEVER.

things that would otherwise annoy me don't, or if they do, i break down and weep unabashedly and feel absolutely no regret or shame for doing so. it's not emotional detachment; i still feel, i just do so sans judgment.

no:

i'm such a pathetic, weepy baby.

more like:

i'm a weepy baby. i need more tissues, please, and chocolate.

no:

sorry, i'm such a bitch. sorry, sorry, sorry.

more like:

wow, i'm a snarky bitch. this can be fun!

the feelings, well, they just sort of wash over me and fade away into to an ibuprofen-induced calm...until the elephant stomps across the tundra of my uterus again.

"big girl, you are beautiful!"

i'd have given my left breast to be a part of this video. would have made for creative costuming, but goodness this looks like it was so much fun to make!

“i am a pretty girl.”

i came across this blogpost, Beauty is in the Eye of the Toothbrush Holder the other day. its beauty and honesty stunned me. even more when i discovered that it came from the fingertips of a 24-year old.

no fair.

i don't think i truly started having moments of epiphanous self-love like this until my late 20s or early 30s. i still struggle, dammit, and it pisses me off. for instance, due to the heat, humidity and a hearty case of PMS, my face has broken out into a constellation of pink stars. it is so very hard for me to look at myself in the mirror and not see red, angry tittles screaming back at me:

mwahahahahahahaaaaa! i shall ruin your life!

it is so very hard for me not to hear my grandmother's voice circa 1994, when i was struggling with a particularly bad collegiate breakout, spoken as if she were offering me some bit of revelatory advice:

well...do you ever wash your face?

so, yeah, i still struggle with seeing The Truth in the mirror. The Truth that yes, i have zits sometimes, my skin doesn't look like airbrushed porcelain, but it's still pretty damn clear. my eyes are a bright hazel-amber that remind me of my mom's. my nose works, and i have pretty great cheekbones.

unlike when i was 24, i now have a hefty dose of perspective. the zit is no longer who i am, it's just part of who i am TODAY. and, this time 'round, i know it won't last. not a bit of it. the acne. the undereye circles. the bright hazel-amber eyes. the sculpted cheekbones. the zits'll clear up in the next week or two. the undereye circles will do the same with a good night's sleep and plenty of H20. the bright eyes will eventually slope and crinkle around the edges. the cheekbones will lose their striking prominence with the inevitable weight gain that will come with (hopefully) bearing children and a ripe and probably rounder middle age.

so, for today, i'm gonna try to look forward to changing, for better or for worse. change means i'm alive. dead people certainly don't get zits, but then, they're DEAD...and i can always dab on a little concealer.

"i am woman, hear me chew."

i've got myself taken care of. i wonder what he's gonna eat.

Be Yourselves, Girls, Order the Rib-Eye

i used to be the girl that ate a "little something" before she went out on dates so i wouldn't eat too much at dinner. i remember my eighth-grade valentine's dance. i went with parker grow. i wore a royal blue satin dress with a sequinned bodice and an assymmetrical waistline. parker had a matching cummerbund and bowtie. i rolled my hair. i teased my bangs. i had braces. and because i'd read in TEEN magazine to eat something before a date so as not to make a big oink out of oneself, i ate a piece of ham and cheese pizza before he picked me up. we went to his house for a lovely dinner his mother had prepared for eight of us. i hardly ate a bit, which in retrospect, was not only rude, but incredibly stupid. the food was delicious, particularly the homemade tiramisu dessert that i pecked at like an anorexic sparrow.

i will always regret that uneaten dessert. sorry, mrs. grow.

i also went through a phase where i only ordered salads when i was on dates. again...dumb. i enjoy salads, definitely, i eat them on a daily basis, but not usually when confronted with other, more carnivorous options. and in the romance department, salad? pffft. can you really imagine sharing a forkful of mixed greens over candlelight? nothing sexy about that. offering up a drippy bit of pink steak au poivre to the salivating boy across the way? Sexy City. and if what one eats at dinner is indicative of the tastes of another appetite, i'd prefer the boy associate my desires with something hearty and robust, not light and fibrous.

in the end, of course, a girl should eat whatever the hell she wants on a date. eating steak when what you're really craving is broccoli in hopes he'll think you're "unpretentious and down to earth and unneurotic," is just as silly as eating a salad because you don't want to appear "too carnivorous" and what i'm guessing this really means is, masculine.

gasp!

so yeah, ladies, eat what you will, what you want, what you crave. i man worth his salt is gonna like you for reasons other than what you put in your mouth anyway. salad, steak...whatever. of course, i'm not so sure the same holds true for boys, for me, that is. i mean, i think i have admit to a bit of a double standard here. on my first real date with The Cute, i ordered steak au poivre...and so did he. good thing. if he'd ordered "just a salad," i'm not so sure i would have stuck around for dessert.

compassion can be a bitch.

remember when we were proud of our belly buttons?

Sent: Mon, 30 Jul 2007 2:53 pm

Subject: Hey

Hey Margaux. One of the books came per your recommendation. So thanks for the suggestion, it makes sense so far. I am so angry with myself for using food in this way. But this is good time for intervention.

On 7/31/07, margrocks@aol.com wrote:

yay! i hope you enjoy it, and don't be angry w/ yourself, sweetpea. try compassion. works much better every time.

now, if i could only take my own damned advice. i've certainly gotten better at it - choosing compassion over control - but it ain't always easy. even after all of these years of therapy, i'm still flabbergasted that it continues (at times) to be far easier to be cruel to myself than kind. by compassionate, i don't mean self-destructive and letting oneself go all willy-nilly, but gentle and kind. i suppose i should be compassionate towards myself in terms of self-compassion too, eh? i've taken what feels like baby steps, but if i look back at the girl i was a few years ago, i can hardly make her out in the distance - a girl who couldn't bring herself to even touch her belly in the bath or shower because it was less than perfect...

...maybe if i don't touch it, wash it, moisturize it, care for it, acknowledge it, it will go away...

now, on less than perfect days, when the ups and downs of life match the perceived roly-poly of my midriff, i do this: i purposely fall asleep with my hands resting gently upon my abdomen, palms down. i imagine light and love and compassion breathing from my hands into The Belly, my longtime bane. touch: a simple thing, but an absolute necessity in creating and maintaining cohesive, lasting, loving relationships, and i would certainly like one of those with The Belly. we're getting to know one another after a lengthy, embittered separation.