The shorts aversion.

I hate shorts. Absolutely despise them. I wore them for volleyball in college solely because it was mandatory(NCAA rules- can you say CONTROLLING?), but other than that I really haven't worn them since about the seventh grade. I am honestly not sure why (get ready for a dazzling display of modesty), since I know that I have really long, muscular legs, but they make me horribly uncomfortable. Today is my Reggae Run and since it's about 90 bajillion (that's only a slight exaggeration) degrees here in Boston today, I knew my usual pants/capris wouldn't cut it, and I headed begrudgingly to the store, resigned to my fate.

Now, trying on shorts, for me, is the equivalent of trying on bathing suits for most women. I tried to pick out the least offensive looking pairs (i.e. ones that didn't look like half of a 1982 gym uniform), growing more and more agitated with every pair I saw. At the height of my frustration, as I was looking at some reflective (yes, that's right, these babies glowed in the dark) one of the "crunchy" guys who works there came over to "help me." I should explain that I was in R.E.I., an outdoors/adventure store (because it is right near where I work), where most of the staff looks like they either should be out hiking and communing with nature, or are spaced out and hiking in their minds (having been communing with their local pot dealer). I declined his help, sure that he had probably never seen a woman naked, let alone possessed the ability to help one pick out something as intimidating as a pair of shorts.

I was mulling over the options in my hand when I spotted it. It was as if the heavens opened down and rained celestial light on them. An "athletic skirt." This bad boy had it all- shorts UNDERNEATH, and a cute, flirty little skirt on the outside. I.E. It was stylish AND functional. Usually I have to settle for stylish and barely functional. I was frightened i'd have to settle for functional and horrifically unstylish and ghastly. I think metaphorically speaking, I could liken the skirt to biting into a coconut chocolate in your Valentine's candy box- fantastic on the outside and disgusting on the inside. The rotten shorts were concealed and everyone knows I am more than comfortable in a little mini skirt- and this isn't even all that mini!

Triumphant, I tried on the skirt. It fit like a dream, was wonderfully comfortable, and I didn't feel like running behind a 6'7 man to hide myself. The catch? It looks somewhat as though I've just "popped 'round for a game of tennis." I stood there for a good five minutes in that skirt, posing like a madwoman and trying to decide if I wanted to sacrifice my comfort for the sake of what everyone else will think. When I put it that way, I peeled it off, marched up to the register (ok, I DID put my own pants back on first!), and purchased that bad boy. Today, I'm going to be able to focus on the run and NOT on what my thighs are looking/feeling like.

The lesson, kids? It's just fine to dare to be a little different. And you know what? I guarantee that the guys running behind me will like it just fine.

On peeing. And some other stuff.

Let me set the scene. It was about 11:30 at night yesterday and i'd just spent four hours on a delayed train from New York(I would like to thank the freak sitting next to me who smelled like ...something truly unidentifiable. I was feeling too lazy to shower last night, but opted to do so immediately upon returning home. I overslept this morning and wouldn't have had one otherwise!). I'd been loading up on water all day and it had caught up to me somewhere around Bridgewater, CT. I could not, however, force myself to take the "walk of shame" (or what I imagine to be one), and use the bathroom on the train. There's something incredibly disconcerting about walking into a bathroom in front of all of those people. You might as well be wearing a sign advertising that within the next minute you will be sitting with your pants around your ankles.

So, by the time I had traveled the remaining 2 hours between Bridgewater and home, taken the T to my stop, and walked home from there, my teeth were positively SWIMMING. I was dancing, prancing around like Richard Simmons (and my hair, succumbing to the humidity of the weekend, was paying homage to him, as well), when I realized that I couldn't find my keys. Panic consumed me and I threw everything on the ground, frantic to locate the precious metal before I either exploded or did something I haven't done (to my knowledge) since I was three years old. Engulfed in darkness (I don't have a loving boyfriend/husband/anything at all to thoughtfully leave a light on for me), I struggled until my hand emerged from my bag, triumphantly wielding the key to my salvation.

It wasn' t over. Not until the formerly fat lady pees. My next task proved even more difficult- Fitting the key into the two locks and performing the various special wiggles and turns (sometimes I even have to peform a ritualistic dance) required before I can enter my own home. Finally, the door burst open and I rushed forth, leaving my baggage in the doorway and running up the stairs.

Of course I tripped.

What a weekend! I went on a cruise around the island of Manhattan, visited with my aunt and uncle and generally got away from the chaos that is my everyday life. For my own safety I would like to say that I am still an extremely loyal member of Red Sox nation. With that being said, I really love NYC. It has a flavor all of its own and although Boston will always be number one in my heart, part of me wonders what it would be like to pack it all up and move to NYC...or anywhere else for that matter.

Lately, I've had an itch. Don't worry, it's not one that requires prescription cream or shots, rather, it's an itch to get out of what seems to be a rut for me. I want to travel. I want more than one lousy stamp in my passport. I want to see the country, the world. I want to step out of my comfort zone and my safe, familiar life. Mostly, I want to expand my horizons and find my passion in life. I just need to find somewhere to start. How overwhelming. It's funny. I always thought that "finding yourself" or the desire to change or enhance your life in some fundamental way was just a "spiel," a way to make you feel like your life was missing something or empty. Now I finally get it.

Carnations and Self-Deprecation...I guess those go hand in hand?

"I was thinking you could carry carnations," my mother remarked the other day when discussing my Maid-of-Honor bouquet. "Or I could just carry a sign that says 'Hi, I'm tacky,' I silently shot back.

Ah, the popular "humor the bride" attitude. It's the reason undeserving, victimized bridesmaids end up wearing 42 pounds of chiffon and taffetta while walking down the aisle on the arm of some chump named Bubba who hasn't showered in a year. It is virtually impossible to maintain any semblance of dignity in a situation like this, I am sure.

I wouldn't wear the 42 pound (It's really GIVE or take a few pounds)dress, and I certainly won't carry carnations. Carnations are for instant breakfast shakes or baby formula, not Maid-of-Honor bouquets (or any other bouquets, for that matter). Besides, I already let her have her hippy looking crown of flowers- heck, I even made the frickin' thing! A girl has to have limits. I broke the news as gently as possible (it WAS a bit heart wrenching to see her face fall when I informed her that I despise carnations- I left the tacky part out), and stood my ground (I will say that it went better than the "mom jeans debacle"). I think we're going with the gerber daisies and I am understandably relieved. Those will compliment my sexy little dress very nicely.

In case your powers of deduction aren't exactly top notch, my mom is getting remarried this weekend. I really liek the guy she's marrying, even if his family is a little...down south without actually being from the south...I may be harboring residual resentment at being excluded from the bachelorette shindig his sisters had (and told me countless times they'd call me about), but I promise that I will let it go before seeing those off-the-rack from sears circa 1992 sporting women at the wedding. No, really. Serenity...

On another note (and apparently with no graceful seque from the previous paragraph), i've been thinking a lot about this lately, and I just don't get it. I really and truly don't. Why is it that we're so quick to compliment others, but when it comes to seeing the good in ourselves- be it internal or external, our nice side hits the road and we take out boxing gloves, ready to go Mike Tyson on our own asses. (Just for the record, there are alot of things I don't get, but in the interest of saving time and for today's topic, we'll just focus on this one). I say this not only becasue I see others doing it to themselves, I see ME doing it to MYSELF. I'm so self-deprecating sometimes that it pains me to reiterate it here, but it sort of helps me prove my point, so i'll share. I've been known to say things to myself like, "You're too fat to live," and "Fat ass," and a virtual smorgabord of other horrible insults. I criticize every single aspect of myself and frankly, I am my own worst critic. The only good thing is that there is probably nothing that anyone can say about me that I haven't already thought about myself, so I really don't care what others say about me anymore.

So why do we do this? Why are we women so damn critical of ourselves? Can't we cut ourselves a break?? I mena, I know that there are good things about me. I KNOW that i'm not fat. I'm not a complete dog, I'm in good shape, I have fantastic willpower, I'm a STRONG person, and I have completely changed my life in the face of some really tough circumstances. I have no answers. I don't know why I do this to myself. But I am trying to be kinder to myself...and I think it's really working.

We all need to learn to treat ourselves with the respect that we so richly deserve, no matter what size we are.

so here I am on Friday night. There are some people posing with me, but I didn't want to post them just in case. :) This is probably the only halfway decent picture i've ever taken, so i'm ok with it.

Ack!

It's been a while since I actually wrote anything remotely about weight loss. I suppose I should say a word about that since this thing originated with the idea of somehow chronicling my journey to the wonderful world of size six.

Yes, that's right, kids. Jenny is a size six. How in the HELL did that happen? I always thought of single digit sizes as some elusive, perhaps imaginary place where fashion designers set up camp. I sometimes still don't recognize myself. I'll be folding laundry and hold up what looks to me like a shirt for my nine year old cousin, or a pair of pants with what looks like an impossibly thin waist and chastise myself for shrinking my clothing (trust me, it wouldn't be the first time.). I suppose what with vanity sizing, people are going to be reading this and saying, "HA! That's meaningless." Well, you know what? HERE'S my umbrella! You're not raining on my parade.

Alot has happened to me in the past two months. I became seriously ill and had to have my gallbladder out because it was damaging my liver. Shortly after, my dad was put in a nursing home at the age of 49, and a few weeks later he passed away. My paternal grandfather is now in the hospital while they try to decipher what exactly is up with his heart. I feel like the worst that could happen has happened. Sometimes, I literally look towards the sky and think, "What next? Bring it on!!! I'm ready!"

It's been a very hard couple of months, and I think that this was a HUGE test of my renewed committment to my body and a test of strength. Despite everything that has happened and is happening, I continue to remain true to my healthy lifestyle because if there's one thing i've learned it's that you get one body, so you had better make damn sure that you treat it right.

I will say that sitting shivah (a period of mourning after the person dies in which the immediate family does nothing but mourn and eat things that others have brought to them- or in our case, have had delivered) with the Jewish side was... well, let's just say that whenever ANYTHING happens, they eat. I mean, someone dies, circumcisions, weddings, bat and bar mitzvahs...I don't know...probably after sex, too. Ever seen "The Nanny?" Remember Fran and Silvia? I recall an episode in which Silvia put ice cream and chocolate syrup in her diet shake. My point is, they eat.

In this case, people sent so many freakin' deli platters we could have stocked all of the Kosher delis on Long Island. It was nuts. You were just expected to eat continuously throughout the day and just when you thought lunch was finally over, it was time for dinner. And then when you were on the verge of exploding out of your pants and shooting yourself or someone else with the buttons from your clothing, it was time for dessert (which you'd been eating throughout the day, anyway!). I ate so much turkey (because it was the kind that they just carved right off the bird and the only sensible option) that I don't even know how i'll react when I see it on Thanksgiving (because God knows there's no way in Hell i'll voluntarily put myself in a situation involving turkey until then). I'm guessing it'll trigger my gag reflex. I'll have to let you know. (Oh, and BLESS the people who sent that lovely fruit arrangement. My heroes.) There were bagels and lox (no Jewish shindig is complete without this. I'm not even Jewish and I knew that!), tuna, chicken, and whitefish salads laden with mayo, cookies and pies...it was food chaos and every bingers heaven and hell. I still haven't figured out how I held up against all of that, but when I do, I'll be sure to let you know. Sheer willpower, I guess.

I suppose that what I want to get across is that even under extreme stress and grief, I was able to stay strong and not use food as a comforting tool. I didn't try to eat myself into oblivion and I didn't try to numb myself (although I may have unintentionally with all the freakin' tryptophan in the turkey!). I got through it just fine. How many people can say that? I know that before I started this trip to health, I certainly wouldn't. I remember getting my first (and it turned out, only) rejection letter from a college I applied to, getting in the car, getting a JUMBO bag of Smartfood, and packing it away like it was my job. It certainly didn't help. I felt ten times worse. I should've gone for a walk instead. From now on, that's what i'll do.

Sometimes the hardest thing in life is letting go...

My father passed away on Sunday after a long bout with numerous illnesses that ravaged his body- leaving his mind prisoner in a shell that no longer worked. Throughout it all, he kept his sense of humor and I know that he found such comfort and peace in my brother and I.

He ended up having a massive heart attack at dialysis, went into cardiac arrest, and subsequently suffered many strokes, which left him braindead and on life support. One of the most difficult things was coping with the fact that although his body was lying in that bed, he was already gone.

I remember my dad as an active, energetic, and explosive personality and we knew that he would not want to live like that. My brother, my uncle, and I agreed that the best thing would be to let him go. When they took him off life support, it didn't happen right away and we stayed by his side night and day for a day and a half before he slipped away peacefully, with my brother and I each holding one of his hands, beautiful music playing, and my head on his chest as he took his last few shuddering breaths. I laid with him until they came to take him away, knowing that it was the last time I would ever feel close to him. I couldn't get up because once I did, that would be it. I would never see him again.

It's a painful thing to lose a parent, and, I am told, especially when you are 22. My brother is 18. My dad? He was 49 years old. The numbers on his headstone are too close together: 1958-2007. In the cemetary yesterday, everywhere I looked the numbers were much further apart and I was overwhelmed with the unfairness of it all. But I find comfort somehow- that he is no longer suffering, that he is whole wherever he is, and that he is at peace.

My dad was somewhat of an atheist and out of respect for my Jewish grandfather, my brother and I, as next-of-kin, authorized my uncle to plan a traditional Jewish funeral, although we are not of the Jewish faith. I knew that I needed to say something and I needed to do that for my dad, so I wrote a eulogy for him. Somehow, miraculously, I got through it and I said what I needed to say- I even got a few laughs, which I know my dad would have loved. I wanted to share with you, faithful reader (if you've gotten this far, you must be faithful!), what I wrote. I've said it before and i'll say it again- family is the most important thing we have in this world, so don't take it for granted, because life is too unpredictable and cruel sometimes.

For my dad: January 4, 1958-February 11,2007

Simone de Beauvoir once said, “From the hour you’re born, you begin to die. But between birth and death, there’s life. “That’s what I want to talk about right now-my dad’s life. You know, I think everyone here knows that my dad was a consummate bad boy. He had some wild stories. I wish I was as good of a story teller as he was because then I could do his stories justice and have everyone here laughing in one fell swoop. He’d really love that. He wasn’t really one for religion, but he loved to tell jokes and make you laugh, even when things seemed bleak.

One night this past summer he, Josh, and I stayed up all night and he told us one funny story after another. He knew he had us rolling on the floor laughing and he got a huge kick out of it. He was a fantastic story teller. He’d gesture and make hilarious facial expressions, pausing in all the right places. You could tell he loved remembering how things used to be. How HE used to be.

THAT ‘S how I want to remember my dad, how I CHOOSE to remember him. My dad was by no means perfect. He was a flawed human being, as all men are, and although much of our time together was rocky, he had his moments, and I will be forever thankful for the past four years that we had together. Our relationship and friendship these past few years is a true testament to the power of forgiveness. It is thanks to this that I am standing before you today and it is through this that I am finding comfort and peace. He died with my brother and I by his side, and he knew that we loved him. There’s something beautifully symbolic in that he was there when we came into this world and we were able to be with him when he went out of it.

I want to share some of my memories and thoughts with you now because I don’t want you to remember him as he was the past two years, or for those of us that were there- in his last few days and I know he wouldn’t want that either.

Dad was a terrific athlete. He was in the Army ROTC and a baseball player, a football player, and a black belt in karate. He taught me how to play softball, the one sport that I really and truly excelled at, ironically, and he came to most of my games, always cheering me on and always eager to play catch. We spent hours in front of our house, playing catch in the street. I got my good arm from him, and I know he was always proud when I took third base.

It’s no secret that he was incredibly intelligent. He was enthralled by the world around him- history, technology, current events, cars, and he was always eager to talk about it. You could ask him almost anything and he would answer in great length and detail, telling you everything you need to know. I remember when I was little and he’d help me with my math homework. My mom wouldn’t touch it, but he’d sit down, roll up his sleeves and explain it to me. Unfortunately, while I got his general smarts, I don’t quite have his aptitude for numbers.

Other than telling stories, nothing seemed to make him happier than sharing what he knew with Josh and I. His whole face would light up when you asked him to tell you about something. Sometimes he’d just think of something and randomly ask, “Did you know…?” and share some really fascinating anecdote or fact that we would never have known otherwise. I will really miss that. I learned a lot from him and I always learned something new.

My Uncle Sidney commented the other day that he remembers my dad installing kitchen cabinets and how proud he was of him. I remember how good he was with his hands. He was a tool and die maker and one day he came home and used a tape measure to measure my finger. A few days later he came home with a ring that he had made because he knew I wanted a ring very badly. I was always fascinated by the rings that my grandmothers and my mom wore, so he wanted me to have one, too. He made others things. I wanted to be an artist for a very long time. I loved to draw, paint, and I was churning out what I thought was masterpiece after masterpiece on a daily basis. For Christmas one year he made me an easel. It was truly fabulous- a chalkboard on one side, and a place to hang a piece of paper on the other. It was the perfect size and height, too. I loved that easel and I will pass that easel on to my children.

He was always eager for a project and he threw himself into each new thing that he tried with passion and abandon. Josh and I were just recalling his jaunt into fishing. He had a crazy fishing pole and he stocked up on all sorts of lures. When he dove into these things, he didn’t just dabble- he educated himself and went into it wholeheartedly. So, needless to say, he was a very successful fisherman. It was really too bad that we all couldn’t stand bluefish.

He taught Josh and I how to fish. We went down to Point Judith one day, stood at the end of the dock, and he showed us how to bait a hook. We had stopped for worms and he was showing us how to do it. I was squeamish at first, but he wanted me to at least try it, so I did. Then he taught us how to cast off. I remember trying to cast off as far as I could because he was fantastic at it. He could make the lure go for what seemed like miles. Once, we both cast off as far as we could and he made it go so far that when he reeled it back in he realized that the lure had come right off.

He was pretty random sometimes (I think this must be where I got MY randomness- and my stubbornness from, while we’re at it.). Some days he’d get up and decide that we should go somewhere- tobogganing, apple picking (where I’d eat so many apples that I’d get sick!), ice skating, to Point Judith for lobsters, to Barrington to see the big houses, etc. Sometimes we were eager to go, but sometimes it seemed like he was dragging us all over the state. I know now that this was his way of trying to show us things that he found interesting and that he thought we would enjoy. Well, now I love going to look at the big houses and I love apple picking and tobogganing and I love random car trips to places like Point Judith and Newport and I really still love a good lobster.

One year, my mom had surgery right before Christmas and she, Josh, and I were staying at my grandmother’s house. Being kids our main concern was getting our Christmas tree, and when we were told we wouldn’t have one that year, we were devastated! It was a travesty, as far as we were concerned- Christmas at our house without a Christmas tree! Well, when we went home…and in the door…there it was. Dad had gone out and gotten a Christmas tree and had it all set up and waiting for us to decorate.

When I was little, he had a big gut, which was a major joke between the four of us. I used to sit on his lap and knead his stomach. He always called it “making pizza.” Every time I did it he’d always ask what kind of pizza we were having that night.

We played make believe all the time. One of my favorites was hair dresser. Dad didn’t have much hair, but he had enough to brush and to put barrettes and head bands in. He was pretty secure in his masculinity, I’d imagine, since he let me put all sorts of crazy ornaments in his hair. One night, he went to CVS after we’d been playing and when he came back he told my mom that everyone had been looking at him oddly in the store. She laughed and reached up to unclip a pink butterfly clip that was dangling from a tuft of hair. “This could be why.” She said.

Before dad went blind, he had a scooter. He absolutely loved it- it was an all-terrain vehicle and came with turbo speed. We took it for a few spins and one day we took it to the boardwalk at the beach. I will always remember that day- it was sunny and fabulous. I ran and he sped along beside me until I got so tired I couldn’t run anymore. Then I hopped on the scooter with him and we raced down the length of the beach, laughing that everyone else had to walk.

I don’t think that there is anything more painful than losing someone that you love. I can’t imagine that it gets much worse than losing a parent. I’m finding comfort in a few things now. His last few years, in particular, were very rough and I know that he is now at peace. I do not know much about Judaism, but in my faith we believe in an afterlife and while I admit that I am uncertain about what lays in the “great beyond” I like to think that he is looking down us, maybe at some big shooting range in the sky…but there is one thing of which I am certain. He is whole again and his spirit will live on in my brother and I. He may be gone, but I will never forget.

Sleep? What do you mean by that?

:::::yawn::::: I suspect that my sleep debt as of right now is three times larger than the debt of all the developing African countries put together. I'm tired. Exhausted. Wiped out. If I stop typing in the middle of a sentence and all that you see is something that looks roughly like this: "ahdlfkhalsdihflasidhfak..."then know that it's because I have passed out, my head has hit the keyboard and somehow miraculously subsequently managed to also post the entry...ok, so maybe that won't happen, but never say never!

Ok, let's take this in a different direction now. I noticed that lately people have been really noticing how different I look, or maybe they noticed before but now it's gotten so blatant that they feel they should say something. People are constantly telling me how good I look- and no, I am not getting a big head- but they are ALWAYS sure to add that "it's not that you didn't look good before, of course." I appreciate the compliment, and that's sweet that they were sure to add that, but I always want to add, "Puh-lease. Who are you kidding? I was a heifer." Or even something like, "That's funny. I wish you'd said something before, then."

Would I ever say something like that? Of course not! I am way too nice and I know that people mean well. Still, it strikes me how sensitive this topic actually is and how much people tiptoe around it when it's the obvious elephant in the room- pun intended. A staggering percentage of adults and children in this country are obese- not just overweight- obese. Everyone is fat. It's time to speak frankly about it and do something before it's too late.

It's not just about appearance- which I believe is what has people so anxious about bringing it up. It's also about health and living longer. Yes, when my family brought this up to me I was resentful. How could I not be? It's like living with a bunch of Twiggies! I know now that they were genuinely frightened for my life. They love me and were scared that I wouldn't be around if I kept going the way that I was. I see clearly now that they were absolutely right.

On a different vein and somewhat lighter note, I cleaned out my closet the other day and realized that the vast majority of my clothes either a.) no longer fit, b.)are incredibly stretched out and no longer fit or c.) some combo of the aforementioned. This puts me in a difficult position. I have about 25 more pounds to go, so I will most likely be in a smaller size when I reach my goal, which would mean that the clothes I buy now will be irrelevant.

This creates an even bigger conundrum for me. I am quite stylish, if I may say so. I'm known as the glamour girl of the finance division and I can FINALLY wear the clothes that i've always wanted to wear. The problem? Figuring out what to buy and what to hold off on. Luckily, my cleavage seems to be staying firmly put and as it is generous, I need a medium or a large in tops, and probably always will, so I can get tops- just not bottoms. This is like saying, "You can build the house, you just can't put the roof on!" Frustration!!!

The other night I decided to bite the bullet and went shopping with my grandmother, which is always an interesting experience. My grandmother is absolutely hilarious- she cheats at Scrabble, watches Sex and the City every Wednesday, and will occasionally drop a swear word. She's also one of the sharpest and smartest people I know and taught me more than I could ever even say. I love my grandmother dearly, but we do NOT have a good track record when it comes to shopping together. At all.

I remember when I was a sophomore in high school and we wandered into Express. She took one look around the store, beckoned the salesgirl (who looked about 17) overand proceeded to tell her that it was a terrible store with cheap, sleazy clothes and that she didn't understand why they had sold out and were selling such horrible clothing to children. Oh, I kid you not. I cowered in a corner, secretly lusting after a pair of "sleazy" jeans.

Well, my grandmother offered to take me shopping because goodness knows I need some nice clothes for work. I am happy to report that other than a brief foray into Liz Claiborne (a bit too old for me), and a three minute jaunt into Kasper, we went to some pretty great places and I was able to pick up a few things. Of course, I did hear the obligatory, "You always have to find out what it's made of!" or "You don't really like that, do you?" and my personal favorite, "That's cheesy." But no salesgirls were harmed during the excursion. All in all, a really fun time with someone I love alot. What more could I ask for? Appreciate your families people!!!

Well, i'm off. I am going to attempt to figure out how to add more pictures, so we'll see if I can get them up on my next post, which, hopefully, will not be too long from now. :)