I don't wanna be

It seems like when one looks into a mirror one should be able to have an accurate reflection of one's being. But I have found that to not be true. I think the  psychologists call it body dysmorphia or something like that.  A fancy way of saying that how we see ourselves is seldom accurately reflected in that two dimensional reflective piece of glass.

Thirty some years ago, the reflection showed an insecure young girl with geek glasses, braces, few friends, great report cards and a habit of reading to escape the real world. Just what I was escaping from, I'm not sure.  The mirror showed a girl who scorned anything resembling popular, cool, or in.  Turned 180 degrees away from it, even if deep inside she wanted it or liked it. Who reveled in A's, the National Merit Scholars, and the Knowledge Bowl team.. Was always told, "you're skinny enough to be a model." No one ever said "pretty enough". I'm not sure why that always bothered me, but it did.

In college, it helped to have a budget controlled diet. Now I tried harder to fit in. I was always the "make-over" candidate, but I never really made the transition.  I did gain a social life, but looking back it was somewhat self destructive. Always chasing the wrong guy, sobbing on the shoulder of the ones I should have been with.  And yet the girl in the mirror couldn't see anything but a fun house distortion.  





Forward three decades, I still have zits and feelings of insecurities and an additional 130 pounds. It's not that I want to be part of the right group-maybe just be respected by co-workers or subordinates.  I still don't fit in. This time around, I do want to fit in. At least most of the time. Perhaps they can't respect me because I don't have very much respect for them and I don't know how to do that because their worlds are so far from me.

Back then I didn't see how little flesh was on my frame. Today I have a problem seeing how there is too much fat on that frame. I've known intellectually. The scale is proof. The Just My Size jeans are the proof.  But that part of the brain that distorts my personal reality doesn't get it. Likes to rely on denial and excuses. Can't figure out why  I can quit the vodka but not the sugar? Why I feel the need to reward myself with unhealthy food if I'm in a good mood? Or drown my sorrows with coke and chocolate? And then tell myself that it's better than a quart of vodka?

Where does the motivation go? The energy of the twenties? How does the self-deprecation seep into the soul? How does the creak of the joints get so loud? How do you reclaim that self?  Recapture the ideals and body of the twenties, with the wisdom and income of the high end of forties?

As Gavin DeGraw sings, "I don't want be anything other than me."  Too bad I don't know who the hell that is. 

Ids, Egos and Superheros

Clark Kent has his phone booth.  Isis and Wonder Woman have their alter egos.  Split personality. A normal persona. A secret one. Okay, maybe not secret, but famous, important.

It seems so easy to morph from one to the other. A quick step inside a phone booth while ripping  your button up shirt off and exit with super powers. Take the glasses off, the  bun down and twirl around with your arms wide and you accessorize with a golden lasso and bullet proof bracelets.

I wonder who they see in the mirror? The normal? Or the supernormal? When they walk down a sunlit sidewalk, do they see the shadow of the cape or the lasso? Which is real? Are they both?

Where does one persona begin and the other end?  And how could I create my own? I did when left the original Jeff and went to Mankato.  From shy, intellectual wall flower to outgoing, drinking and swearing, somewhat promiscuous dean's list honoree.

So why do I find it so difficult to recreate myself again? The one that chooses sweat over sweet. Activity over sedantry. The persona that quietly and magnetically persuades people of her brilliant ideas. The persona that is well respected and liked by coworkers. The persona that  leads with charisma and wisdom. The persona that is given a nifty nickname out of adoration.

Eats right. Sleeps well. Breathes fresh air.  Meditates. Gives back.  The person that matches my self image with the shadow on the sidewalk. 

Petty Petulance and the Pouter

Almost 48 years old. Still plagued by acne and temper tantrums. Some days I just want to kick and scream (usually at my bosses or co-workers). The worst part is I usually want to do it in response to a behavior that I have been guilty of.

My ideas are always brilliant, and the wise would do well to smilingly adopt my plans. Why do I get insecure and worry that I'm not important or useful anymore?  Why must I be self arrogant?  Why do I see that my way is the only shiny golden path to efficiency?

Why does my petulance seek and outlet in the consumption of unhealthy food? Filet o fish. Beefy nacho griller.  Donuts.  Pizza. White flour. White sugar. Visions of vodka induced numbness.

Why can't I crave the endorphins of riding my bike? Why is self destruction and bad behavior so much easier than self care?

I guess if I knew all that, I wouldn't be sitting here pouting like a two year old

You Can't Crash on a Merry-go-Round

Why should self care be so difficult and self destruction so easy.  Why long for the body you had twenty years ago? Why castigate yourself for the moment of weakness as your tongue relishes the oh-so-fake cheese of the beefy nacho griller washed down with poisonous Dr. Pepper? Why bemoan the fact you have averaged 40 hours of overtime a month this year rather than smile with satisfaction over the extra payment made to Visa?

Celebrate the crisp juicy organic apple that was your afternoon snack. Don't dwell in the fatigue that followed every step through Walmart and Costco. Delight in the fact that you have the mobility to walk for thirty minutes.  Think of the unfortunates you saw on  your way to the store tethered to the motorized wheelchair they must rely on.

Let go of the double edged comment from your coworker about wanting to assign overtime to make sure his shift is taken care of. Convince yourself that he really does want to lighten your load and cheerfully train him. Don't be jealous of the new supervisor winning over all of the people who screwed you over when you became a supervisor. Take a lesson.  If nothing else, you have to interact with them less.

Shift the paradigm. Fill the glass. And if you are stuck on the merry-go-round, feel the joy of the music and the rhythm of the horse. And be grateful that the horses never collide.

Taste Bud Game

I'm not sure if it's my tongue or brain that should be labeled traitorous. Two foods placed in front of me.

 A perfect apple. Red, shiny, glistening on the table. You know the first bite will crisp in your mouth. Sweet drops of juice splash on the tongue. The texture of the fruit feels solid, healthy, energizing. You can imagine the healthy power coursing through your body. The energy to take you through a 12 hour day and still want to Float the Wind at Tai Chi.





Next to it is poison. Perfectly round. Delicately golden and sugar drenched Krispy Kreme donut, topped with chocolate and rainbow sprinkles. No resistance as your teeth quickly touch, no substance to the herion like sugar that dissolves in your mouth. The sugar drips down your throat and hits the stomach, providing a brief rush and tingling in the brain. For a moment. Then it quickly fades, becoming a nauseous wave. The energy a mere fleeting moment of pleasure on the taste buds becomes a regret.

So why, with the knowledge, the benefits, the drawbacks. And yet, almost everytime, the taste buds override the brain and the teeth sink quickly into a donut that dissolves and takes a trip to my thighs.  Alas.

Food Drunk

Sometimes revelations can occur despite having had the thoughts many times before. Why it strikes a chord at that particular time is a mystery. It happened to me on a Tuesday, in May, in 2007. When I realized that being an alcoholic wasn't the worst thing in the world. That drinking was. 

Days and years pass and you wake up to realize that you've substituted food as a reward or maybe as a punishment. Instead of the vodka, you use chocolate, donuts, cookies and soda. Eaten fast enough it can almost trigger that sweet buzz that brought oblivion. But the food never made me pass out after that warm, tingly feeling. 

After the months of self examination, meetings, counselors, self-help books, you'd think I'd have figured it out by now. Why do I seek that numbness? That warmth. The oblivion. Why do I substitute sugar?  Why do I feel the need for something external to deal with the hurt, the happiness, the helplessness, the anger, the sadness?

It's so easy for the therapist to say "substitute something healthy like exercise". It's far easier to substitute excuses. It's better to eat than drink vodka. It's too hard to be gluten free, dairy free, egg free and don't forget all the kidney stone generating food.  It's easy to get tired of the gagging sounds people make when talking about your food. They seem to judge when you don't stay on your special diet. It's easy to use the aches and pains, the fibromyalgia, the migraines. 

But by far the most strident, harshest judge is your inner voice. You feel unworthy. Weak. Loathsome. Where do those messages come from. Why can't they tell me how strong and intelligent I am. How beautiful.  How spiritual and comfortable with my soul I am. How I am ready to shed this layer of fat cells that I seem to be using to protect something. What that something is, I'm not sure. 

I've felt that my body is out of tune. Out of synch. In chaos. In denial. In stasis.  But like that day that I knew I could never drink my beloved raspberry vodka again, I know that bad food can be as harmful as the liquor. To my  addictive physical being, it's the chemical composition-the sugar reaction-it's not the form, liquid or solid. Vodka drunk or chocolate drunk. It all leads down the same dangerous path. 

Where was I?

Maybe I should have said, "When was I?". Somehow I seem to have let a couple of decades (not years) slip past me without really knowing where they went. 

Not an unusual phenomenon. Not something I can halt at any rate. So I'll just ruminate about how appealing it seemed to be to be able to pack up the back of a Ford Ranger and head off into the unknown.  The bleak reality is that I now prefer the Tempurpedic ergonomic mattress that allows these overburdened weary bones to sink in comfort every night. I'm not even sure I could climb into the back of the Ranger and bed down on a two inch foam mattress on a plywood platform anymore. 

What makes these memories so fond? Is the security of a pay check every two weeks for the next 14 years so mindbogglingly normal that I escape vicariously to the past? 

Why am I closing in on 50, still wondering what I want to do with my life?  Why am I never satisfied? Why do I always want to look over the next horizon? Why do I have so many ideas, so many things to accomplish, but at the end of the day, I just want to curl up with a book and fall asleep till the clamor of the next day's alarm starts at 0430 hours? 

Is this just the effects of Gemini's ruling planet Mercury in a retrograde phase attempting to lead me astray? Is it the passing to the Other Side of two incredibly strong women in the past few months? 

Why am I experiencing a homesickness that I don't recall from my youth?  Or is it classic Kris  always running away from where she's at to somewhere else? It's harder to run away now with those aforementioned steady pay checks and retirement plan. 

In the past I would have driven several hours to see a friend or a lake (even if it was Superior). Then my trips turned to visits home. (It's winter there now, better think south) I was dreaming of a cruise to Mexico. 

And in perhaps the most frightening sign of maturity (more rudely called old age), I'm researching a food detox retreat complete with yoga, meditation, bio energy mats and some other things I haven't heard of.

Will the alien who appears to have taken over my body and mind, please return the skinny, athletic, 25 year old woman who could eat anything (except onions and mushrooms.)