Reunion

Getting old sucks.  But if there’s one thing I know for sure, every single other person in my graduating class of 1987 is getting old right along with me.  I suppose that’s part of why I agreed to go to my Class Reunion.  I mean, I really wasn’t ALL that interested. Oh sure, there were a couple of people coming back that I wanted to see who I literally hadn’t seen since Junior High (our town was so small that we invite not only the people who actually graduate together, but also the people who were ever our classmates at all and also the ones who dropped out or flunked out...we’re nothing if not all inclusive).  And usually, in a town this size, people from other classes will show up as well, and it’s always fun to catch up with them, too.

But, the true excitement of the weekend for me was the reunion with my four girlfriends.  You see, I’ve reconnected with these friends from the past in the last 18 months, and man, have we all been through a lot together.  And I don’t mean “OMG, my daughter likes a boy who I don’t approve of” kind of stuff.  No, we’ve nursed one of us in the midst of a husband’s affair and subsequent loss of a 24 year marriage, we’ve done time by a husband’s grave site, we’ve shared ugly, horrific secrets, and exposed embarrassing things that we’d be ashamed to tell anyone else, and most of all, we’ve loved each other when we weren’t sure anybody else in the world would.  My girlfriends are the very picture of unconditional love.

And it’s just so hard to get the five of us together.  We live miles and miles apart, we have fifteen children combined, we have ten different jobs and own over a dozen properties and have countless other responsibilities and family members and friends.  But when we are together, everything suddenly seems right and we can all just breathe for a moment.  That’s what I was truly looking forward to.  Breathing for a moment.

And one of the wonderful things about the 25 year reunion is that really, who gives a rat’s ass anymore?  In preparation for the reunion, my 16-year-old gave me a hair cut and I didn’t even have a chance to repaint my toes and I certainly hadn’t lost the 10 pounds I’ve been meaning to.  Aren’t we over all of it?  Failed marriages, grandchildren born, some of my classmates have even lost a child or a spouse.  Who fucking cares about petty little details, right?  

Well, evidently some people still do.  And I never saw it coming.  There was literally an ENTIRE WEEKEND of events around the reunion - dance, dinner, morning devotions (really?), pool party, family BBQ, decorate a parade float (parade float?!), and participation in the parade. Honestly, if that’s your gig, good for you.  Have a great time.  If I lived in the town and was invested at a different level, maybe I’d participate.  I don’t mind if you do.  But you know, the five of us girlfriends didn’t go to the ‘Friday night 80s dance, because, well... we didn’t feel like it.  We needed a moment to catch up.  To hug and cry and laugh without having to worry about anything else.  Who cares if we’re there????  We’re coming Saturday, all right?  Lay the fuck off!!  But, the organizer of the reunion is clearly harboring some high school level anger and resentment toward us. Big time.

We get to the reunion and everybody is a little on edge.  The anxiety is running high.  We’ve resisted the urge to race back to my cabin, get into our pajamas and make a bonfire and eat artichoke dip for dinner and forget the whole thing.  Why are we anxious?  Who knows.  I guess on some level we must all bring all our old baggage and uncertainty and high school angst with us to these reunions.  Plus, when you’ve shown up over the years of previous reunions with various husbands and/or boyfriends (and for some of us, it’s been a different person each time), let’s face it, it’s a little embarrassing.  The reunion is a celebration of our failures in a way.  But it’s also a celebration of our survival.  So, a few stiff drinks later, we were ready to head into the ridiculously well lit room and face our former classmates.

The first thing I did was to turn down the lights.  I mean, the dial was right there on the wall, and if there is one thing we need at the 25-year reunion, it’s a little less light.  And for the love of God, would everybody please set their cameras to black and white and promise to use photo editing software, so we can blur those wrinkles and lines and dark circles under our eyes.  It’s been a long 25 years, people.

I started to catch up with a few people.  I was surprised at how outgoing and friendly a couple people I remembered to be very shy were.  I thought, hey, this is going to be ok.  Hey, this might be fun.  

Then, it was time for dinner.  I had my scoop of mashed potatoes and a couple of baby carrots (Oh, you thought there would be a vegetarian option at the Grantsburg High School class reunion?  Bahahahahahaha!!!!) and made a secret plan to head over into the bar next door and order some cheese curds later.  But, I never got the chance.

Just as I was catching up with a recently divorced friend who I expected to be snotty but turned out to be incredibly humble and sweet and down to earth, I was called to the front of the room with my girlfriends by the organizer of the reunion.  It was all the mystery what was happening.  We were lined up and called out individually as traitors for not attending the event the night before.  We were given these tags that said “traitor” and publicly ridiculed.  Was this supposed to be funny?  Cause it wasn’t.  At all.

And you can try to justify it by saying the person doing it was trying to be humorous in a misplaced kind of way... you can say (and you’d be right) that she is crazy... you can say that it’s better to just feel sorry for her that she’s so wrapped up in whether or not we attend the reunion events that she has to publicly call us out when we don’t. 

But here’s the thing.  After the “traitor” incident, I was again pulled up to the front just a few minutes later to play a “game” and she went out of her way to further ridicule me to my former classmates and their spouses during the entire thing.  I smiled and acted like a good sport while she hugged me and whispered some pretty nasty things in my ear and the first chance I got, immediately fled the scene.  

I won’t attend another reunion.  Who needs it?  We are all so broken, aren’t we?  I’ve spent so much of my adult life trying to reconcile various relationships, to deal with shame and regret and pain from my years growing up.  I have a terrible memory (it drives my girlfriends nuts when I can’t share their memories, but NO, I do not remember that time we had that sleepover at Kim’s house and I do not remember that time when Mr. Richards’ toupee fell off - I just DON’T, ok?!) and so I can’t even go back and conjure up memories of what I may have done to make this person hate me so very much that 25 years later, in our mid-40s, she has to publicly humiliate me in front of other people.

But never mind all that.  I guess what I really want to know is when my girlfriends and I are going back to the cabin together?  Because that, indeed, was the reunion that my heart and soul needed the most...

Addendum to the Lease

In an effort to supplement a career in real estate during pretty much the worst housing market of all time, I have been doing more and more property management.  Property management will not be on the list of “favorite jobs ever”.  

You see, Property Management requires a certain, shall we say, patience.  A certain finesse and “deep breath” taking approach that hot headed individuals are not necessarily suited to.  Oh sure, a hot head comes in handy when somebody needs their ass kicked.  When the time has come for not another moment of shit to be taken, yes, everybody likes to line up behind the person who isn’t afraid to tell it like it is.  But geez, it just gets really, really exhausting having to be so damn politically correct every, single, time...

I have a lot of paperwork I have to use, most of it hopelessly boring, much of it pointless and created by lawyers to justify their existence.  Other paperwork would be much more, oh.... appropriate?  More applicable... 

Addendum to the Lease: Regarding Showings

Kids During Showings

I know that you probably think your kid is cute (how, I have no idea, but I did see you awkwardly smiling from your post on the couch as the 4-year-old answered the front door when I knocked), but when I’m over trying to get someone to rent the place that you’ve trashed, and your kid is following us around, sagging diaper, runny nose and grimy hands, pointing out where he dangerously climbs out the window onto the roof, you aren’t helping the cause.  If you could get off Facebook for a minute and contain the children, I’d be ever so grateful.  Or better yet, how about taking them to the park?  A little fresh air might help clear up that skin condition.

Pets, etc

I know that you would like to punish the ownership for not letting you off the hook with the late fee every single month this year, by NOT cleaning the litter box when I come to show the place.  And really, that was disgusting and annoying and there isn’t a damn thing I can really do about it, is there?  But, I’d like you to know that no, I do not actually think that stain on the carpet is coffee, I know it’s cat pee, and your security deposit just went up in flames.

Oh, and that smell of bleach and lysol isn’t at all covering up the smell of the dog poop that has surely been in the basement for a lot longer than the 48 hours notice I gave you before coming over.  

Timing of Sex

Yes, yes, I realize that it was your BFF’s boyfriend’s sister’s bat mitzvah yesterday, and you were going to head home afterwards, but there was that 2 for 1 special at Bryant Lake Bowl and you were going to stop for just one, but next thing you knew the gorgeous bartender was in your bed this morning and the very last thing you wanted to do was ask him to leave.  

But, here’s the deal.  I told you yesterday I’d be showing the apartment and you knew I was coming today, so why did you have to look so surprised when I walked in on you riding him like a horse?

Pests and Lies

Listen, I know what it looks like when a squirrel scratches a screen and gets in a house.  And I know what it looks like when the leg of your dining room table goes through a screen. And I know the difference between the two.  So let’s just stop pretending, all right?  Also, I know the difference between mouse poop and Chihuahua poop...those little dogs are small, but they ain’t THAT small, so cut the crap (pardon the pun) on that one as well.  Geez.

Random Staring People

Who are all these people in the house and why are they staring at us?  Are we that interesting?  I told you I’d be over today, so did you think it called for a party, where you invited everyone you knew to sit in the living room on a chair and stare and me while I try to point out the good parts of the house and explain that we will thoroughly clean, repair and paint the property while your guests listen to me backpedaling and trying not to insult you even though you’re a total pig and have completely trashed the place? 

Also, I know that at least half these people actually live here and you’re completely over occupying the house, so don’t get all snippy with me when I bring it up later.

Signed, dated and “agreed” upon, even though we all know that if you decide not to comply, we’re going eight rounds in Conciliation Court and thanks for wasting my time on that, when I could have been, should have been and preferred to be, attending my kid’s school conferences:

Signed:______________________________________

End of Summer Haiku

Crabby are the kids

When will bus take them away?

Mama needs a break

Where I've Been

For whatever reason, you seem to be interested in my incessant, foul-mouthed blathering. Don't you have anything better to do? Why haven't I been blogging, you demand...  I've been busy, ok?  Where have I been?  Well, let me tell you where I haven't been...

I haven't had the complete mental breakdown that I keep threatening to have yet never seem to have the guts to have.  And while generalized anxiety and an almost constant state of debilitating perfectionism run rampant in my family, we have this uncanny and annoying ability to keep our heads above water and never go to the very darkest place where we actually get the break at the "spa" somewhere in New Mexico or an undisclosed location in Switzerland because if we weren't sent there, surely we'd be a danger to ourselves and others.  Oh no, we excel in crisis.  Damn it.  Damn it all to hell.

I also haven't been hiring others to help grow my successful businesses, so I can spend more time doing crafts and having pedicures. Oh wait.  I fucking hate crafts. And I usually paint my own toes.  I meant, so that I can spend more time gardening and cooking and volunteering and reading and being with my kids and going to out of town blues festivals with my husband and running and petting my dog.  But, I digress.  I SHOULD have been hiring people, but I went full on "I can only do it myself" mode and so while the businesses have been pretty successfully growing, I have been pretty successfully drowning.

I also have not been sitting around reminiscing about how terrible 2011 was and enjoying the fruition of my correct prediction that 2012 would be a great year. Because, while some really great things have happened in 2012, some pretty horse shit ones have, too. Some of them may pop up in other blogs.  Some of them may have to wait for the book that I'll write as soon as I have stopped giving a shit just enough to expose all kinds of information that will surely isolate me from every friend and family member I've ever had.  And I'm almost there, folks.

Anyway, I'm back.  

Love is the thing

So, it's Valentine's Day.  Men everywhere are racing to the greeting card section of every pharmacy, grocery store, big box discount store and yes, even that neighborhood car wash, where they have the spinning rack of cards to peruse as you eat the free popcorn and await an underbody wash and hand dry on your vehicle.  Do you see them?  They are desperate.  Desperate not to blow it.  Again.  They already feel shame for the long list of holiday violations they have surely committed over the years.  There are just so very many things to remember, after all....birthdays, special foods eaten during first dates, anniversaries of said dates, clothing worn on various occasions and charming stories of good times in the past that they can only smile and fake their way through for so long.  Really, where does it end.  These men are doomed to be disappointing, expectations will never be met, and yet off to the card section they go, trying to avoid shame and holding out hope for the possibility of getting laid later if they just get it right this one, damn time!

I love being surprised with flowers.  And with unexpected notes.  Not so much with chocolate (*see 'weight' blog).  But, I don't at all enjoy these surprises on Valentine's Day.  After all, they aren't surprises on Valentine's Day, are they?  Oh sure, my feelings might have been just a little tainted by the fact that my ex-husband wrote me a gushing sentiment in a card one Valentine's Day, only to leave me for good less than 4 weeks later.  But, marriage-ending Valentine's Days notwithstanding, I still think I'd rather have Gerd donate 75 meals to starving families in Africa than bring me flowers just because he "should".

But then.... there's the love.  And no matter how contrived, no matter how scheduled, no matter what its Hallmark holiday motives may be, Valentine's Day provides us an opportunity to pause and think about love.

And love is really the thing, isn't it?

If you've lost love, you know.  There isn't any other pain like the pain you felt on those nights you were alone, certain you would never again be loved.  Or when you were forced to acknowledge that you'd never again hear the laughter of the person you love or touch their face or kiss their lips.

But, you will always find love again.  It won't always be the same love, but it's there.  It's everywhere, love.  There will be the dog, bursting out of the garage toward the car as you drive up the driveway arriving home from work, happy beyond reason to see you and never crabby or holding a grudge about anything at all.  There will be the friend that shows up at 2am to hug you and console you and stay with you all night, even though they have to get up for work early the next morning.  There will be the child, that you somehow managed to raise to be this amazing person, despite your own shortcomings, who will make you proud over and over and over again and you will love with an intensity that can not really even be described and for whom you would throw yourself under a train in a heartbeat, if only to save their life.  And, there will be the new lover, who reminds you that you don't just get the one chance and love can be found in places you might never have imagined and just might get stronger and better, every single day.

No matter how threatened conservative Christians may feel about the sanctity of marriage being destroyed by gay men and women having the right to marry, and no matter what types of laws they put in place to prevent public recognition of these relationships, they will NEVER be able to diminish or suppress the love that my gay friends feel for each other.

No matter how hungry, oppressed, persecuted or impoverished people are in places all over the globe, they will continue to love.

No matter how abused, neglected or mistreated; animals and humans everywhere continue to give and seek love.

No matter how under paid or under appreciated, I see loving workers in nursing homes, schools, social service agencies and hospitals, loving complete strangers every single day.

Love is the thing, folks.

I hope you find and give a little love this Valentine's Day and every other day, too.

Only in Minnesota

So, it's official.  I'm a true Minnesotan.  And if I wasn't before yesterday, I damn well am now.

Yesterday, I awoke to my alarm and spent a few minutes in bed listening to the wind howling outside my window.  My phone told me that the temperature was 1 (yes, one degree) and the sound of that wind told me that there was going to be some suffering during the Valentine's Day 5k at Lake Harriet.  I was tucked safely into my bed, warm and toasty under multiple layers of covers and Gerd was still sleeping next to me.  What the hell was I thinking signing up for a 5k in the middle of winter??  Maybe I should skip it.  I mean, I had already picked up the free t-shirt the day before.  But then, I remembered that I had committed to doing this with my son (who as it turns out was doing his own over-sleeping in the bedroom downstairs).  Plus, I could really never wear that t-shirt if I didn't show up...  When someone sees me in it and says, oh, you ran the Valentine's Day 5k? Wasn't it cold this year?!  What am I supposed to say.... uh, I wimped out and stayed in bed because of the wind chill?  HELL NO!!!  I can do this thing.  So, I dragged my ass out of bed, put on multiple layers of clothing and woke up Jake.

The family came along to cheer for us.  This is true love, folks.  Long underwear were located, promises of going out to breakfast after the race were made, and though sidetracked by a brief snafu about Jake's sweatpants (or potential lack thereof), we were soon off!  Jake and I listened to pump up songs.  We felt camaraderie at our foolishness.  What were we thinking, really?

I couldn't help but wonder if anybody would actually show up for the race.  But, there they all were!!  We stood huddled together, waiting for the race to start.  We waited in line for lukewarm apple cider. The temp soared to 4 degrees just before the start of the race and I dashed into the port-a-potty for a quick pee.  Have you ever dropped your pants in 4 degrees?  Exactly.

They called us to the starting line, and our eyes were watering and our lashes were beginning to freeze together and our mouths weren't operating properly, as our soft tissues began to harden with cold.  There were throngs of people and we moved like a giant amoeba, attempting to retain some semblance of body heat, while taking our appropriate places at the start line.  Only, in all the frigid disorientation, I didn't take my appropriate place at the starting line.  I took an inappropriate place FAR too close to the front of the pack.  The Star Spangled Banner was sung (with a little more enthusiasm than I thought was necessary) and the lady next to me sang along (badly).  The gun was fired and we're off.  Of course, the amoeba all moved en mass for the first 100 feet or so.  This is to be expected at any holiday 'fun' race, and quite frankly, who fucking cares if you get your big fast start out of the gate at a race where we aren't even chip-timed and a lot of the people are wearing pink tutus and shiny boxers shorts adorned with hearts over the top of their running pants.

But, there is always "that guy", isn't there?  And there he was, coming from somewhere behind me, all serious about the day.  He shoved me, yes SHOVED ME out of his way so he could scramble to the front of the pack.  Dude, you just shoved a middle-aged woman out of your way, brushed past a guy wearing purple leg warmers and tripped over the cute 12-year-old wearing a stocking cap embroidered with the name of her elementary school to get to the front of the pack at the Valentine's Day 5k.  Seriously?  Because we are all out here just trying to survive, the windchill is minus ten and you are an asshole. Oh, and here's a newsflash:  your finish at this race isn't going to qualify you for the Boston Marathon and the next race like this is the Get Lucky 7k with beer and Irish Dancers.  Clearly you belong someplace else.

But, I wasn't able to dwell on rude guy, because first of all, what was I going to do, catch up to him?  Ha!  And soon enough, the amoeba broke up anyway, and there I was running along with my ipod music, trying not to be completely demoralized by the people who continuously passed me the entire rest of the race (note to self: next time start at the back of the pack, where you belong).

There were a few moments of glory.  OK, glory is a bit strong.  Maybe 'moments of moderately good feelings' is a more accurate term.  One was at the south end of the lake, where it gets mildly hilly, and people started to struggle a bit.  I run on ridiculous hills all the time out here in suburbia, so this didn't seem all that bad to me.  I think I passed one, maybe two people (who later passed me) during this stretch.  The second moment was just as I turned to the north and began the last half of the race.  One of the traffic control guys said, 'keep running, because there is a whole sea of humanity behind you!'.  A sea of humanity behind me?  So, I'm not last, then?

These small victories were soon forgotten, however, as I turned north and the wind blew across Lake Harriet from the Northwest.  For the love of God, why??  WHY?!??!?!?!?  What little feeling I had in my thighs was soon gone and I began to wonder, has anyone ever died in the Valentine's Day 5k?  During this stretch I was so grateful for the tags they had us wear on our backs, which read "Taken", "Single" or "It's Complicated".  The idea of this was that people could meet and fall in love and not have to wonder if the person was actually "available", all during the race.  Cute, huh?  Well, when you can't even tell if someone is male or female because we are all wearing so much clothing, it might be difficult to zero in on your potential love interest.  However, I was grateful for the distraction every time somebody with "It's Complicated" ran by.  So, what's their story?  Did they just break up last night because the other person in the relationship was tired of these endless 5k races?  Are they married, but hoping to meet someone who doesn't care and wants to have an affair?  The possibilities were endless and all of this thinking about it got me through most of the rest of the race.

Just as I began to wonder if my family has dashed to the nearest coffee shop, and would later claim that I just "didn't see them", there they were!  Gerd was taking a video of me running by, Harm slapped me five, and Emily/Raena were screaming their lungs out that I was doing awesome.  And then, the 7 other spectators who actually came to the race were cheering to us all as we ran in.

So, I made it.  Jake finished five full minutes ahead of me even though I've been training all winter and he has run one time in the past three months.  But, I made it!!  And today, I have full feeling in all my extremities, and the front of my thighs as well.

And having run this race, on the very coldest day of the winter of 2011-2012, I think I now understand why Minnesotans cut giant holes in ice and jump into frigid water.  Why we sign up for outdoor athletic events that originated in Mediterranean climates and have no business being held here, but are.  Why we have a carnival during which we hunt for plastic medallions hidden in parks at a time of year that has the least amount of daylight, requiring floodlights and torches and vodka and who knows what else.

We do it because we can!!  We are Minnesotans.  We will endure merciless (albeit accurate) jokes about our clipped vowels.  We will endure misrepresentations about our climate, and correct persons everywhere else in the country and most of the world about the fact that it is not actually below freezing here year round.  We will tolerate the fact that our friends and family on either coast don't like to visit us.  And we will continue to perform acts that defy all reason and explanation.

And now, would somebody please book me a ticket to anywhere else but here?  I'm from California, you know.

Weight

I’ve lost five pounds.  But let’s not get all celebratory, ok?  These are five pounds it took me about 32 total hours to gain, in a frenzy of throw-caution-to-the-wind weekend overindulgence, propelled by depression over not being with my kids for the “actual days” of Christmas, and combined with some bad decisions surrounding red wine, Super Mario Bros and cheese fondue.  In fact, would somebody please send me a message letting me know that I seem to have gained a little weight and they saw a photo of me from 2006 and BOY did I look good back then and what the hell happened?

Because you see, I live with a man who loves me.  And in theory this is a good thing.  It is a terrific and wonderful thing.  But, he’s thin.  He has, as his wise and clearly jealous sister recently said, the metabolism of a hummingbird.  I do not believe that he EVER thinks about the calories of any beer he may be consuming, doesn’t give another thought to the bowl of cheese curds and potato chips he likes to eat JUST BEFORE BED, and consumes his Knoke’s chocolates with reckless abandon. And NO, he doesn’t have high cholesterol or any other yet discovered medical problems which fat people love to use as a justification to say about thin people, “Oh, well then, it looks like all that unhealthy eating finally caught up with him.”  Jerk.  But, I digress.  Because he loves me, he likes to tell me I’m beautiful.  He claims not to have noticed the almost 15 pounds I managed to gain in the few years I’ve know him.  This is not helpful.  Sweet, but not helpful.  I’ve requested that he tell me I’m fat.  That I looked so much better in various photos from the years 2005-2008.  But, the most I can get him to do is stop offering me those fucking potato chips.  Sometimes.  Usually he offers them and gives me the puppy dog eyes.  One day, he even suggested (as I said “no thank you” to the 4,567th food item I really actually wanted), “Someday we’ll just be fat and enjoy food and not worry about it”.  Someday WE’LL be fat?  I doubt it!  Someday I’ll be fat.  FATTER!!

Listen, I know what you’re thinking.  If you’re fatter than me, you’re thinking, whatever, Gina looks just fine.  If you’re thinner than me and have to work to be that thin, you’re thinking, man am I glad I haven’t let myself go like that!!  Or, I’m never going to let myself gain these pounds I’ve lost (I said that once).  And if you’re thinner than me and don’t have to work for it, first of all you’re a TOTAL BITCH, and of course you probably aren’t still reading, because why would you be?

You know who you are.  And I don’t want to hear any of that “I’m lucky” business.  We all know you’re lucky.  Just shut up about it, ok?  You are this mutant, thin person, who surely must have an eating disorder, yet doesn’t.  Where, oh where, do you come from?  Take my sis-in-law Becca.  I love Becca.  I absolutely adore her!  She’s creative and funny and loving and a hundred million other tremendous things.  But dammit. Why does SHE get to consume large quantities of food (even late at night!!), drink like a fish whenever she feels like it and continue to be tiny???  Why???  Becca always looks great and never looks bloated.  Becca gets to pig out and have port wine before bed (I don’t know if Becca even likes port wine, but I sure do).  Becca gets to have dessert!  Becca probably even goes out for ice cream sometimes (ok, I happen to know she has this thing with dairy, but still...).  I hope that if Becca and my brother ever decide to have children, said children will mercifully get her alien-like metabolism.  Geez.

But I’m not Gerd and I’m not Becca.  I am Gina and if I eat whatever I want (or even just occasionally some of what I want) I gain weight.  So, I diet.  And as I diet, I observe others in the world who are successfully losing weight.  I ask them, what in the world is their secret?  Here are claims that are baffling, and frankly, pretty fucking maddening:

“I just drink more water and cut back on my portions.”  

What?  This actually works for someone?  Because the thing is, I am almost always watching what I eat and I’m always drinking as much water as I can.  Oh sure, some of you may have seen me in a weak moment, hovering above the cranberry/blue cheese ball at a party, with a glass of red wine in one hand and a mitt full of crackers in the other.  But for the most part, I’m saying no to the sour cream on top, going without the cheese (you think THAT makes me happy?), making buttered popcorn for the family and not having any and I have all but given up beer.  I am perfectly capable of gaining weight eating small portions and drinking lots of water!!!! 

“I went on the (fill in the fancy diet name) diet and ate whatever I wanted, yet lost 25 pounds!”  

BULLSHIT!  Nobody eats whatever they want and loses weight, unless they have a serious medical condition, in which case they ARE eating whatever they want, because they don’t feel like eating anyway.  Here’s what you didn’t do on that diet:  You didn’t stuff your face with roasted vegetable pasta, nachos and garlic mashed potatoes.  Because if I was eating whatever the hell I wanted, you can rest assured those things are on the list.

"I joined a gym/started running/hired a personal trainer”.  

Ok, while exercise obviously helps increase a person’s metabolism and gets us fit, is this actually all some people have to do to lose weight?  Because last time I checked, running 5 miles equals about the same amount of calories in a couple pieces of unbuttered bread.  I run, and the pounds aren’t melting off, folks.  I’d like to get all honorable and “good example” on you and say I’m doing it to stay healthy.  But the truth is, every single huffing, puffing, jiggling moment is devoted to trying to get pounds off this body.  What I really want to know is this:  How does the thin person get motivated to exercise.  Do you REALLY care that much about your health?  Because if I got up every morning and looked in the mirror on the way to the shower and liked what I saw enough to get into a bikini and wear it to Lake Nokomis or even in front of my own family in the backyard, I’d be filling up the cooler with beer and taking the day off.  I sure as hell wouldn’t be running.

Would I like to meet you for lunch?  You bet I would!  I’d love to have a veggie burger, smothered in pepper jack cheese, with sweet potato fries (and yes, I’ll be dipping into that aioli, thank you).  But, I’ll be having this:

Oh, and then, I’ll be hungry in an hour.  I’ll have my protein bar sometime around mid-afternoon and get a little depressed, knowing there is only one more chance to eat before that’s it for this day.  I will make a delicious, cheesy and garlic laden homemade pasta for my family, and sit next to them eating a bean burrito with a sensible portion of fresh fruit while they slather butter on the asiago cheese bread they are eating with the pasta.  Hours later, it’ll be getting close to bed time and while my stomach is growling from hunger, I will watch Gerd have his cheese curds and potato chips, along with his beverage of choice.  

That’s how I lose weight.  Fun, huh?  

Listen, I know that on many levels this all sounds, well, pretty shallow.  There are people starving all around the world, even in my own community, and this is my big problem?  I could have a whole host of medical issues that I do not have.  I’m lucky.  I ought to be ashamed of myself.  I am ashamed of myself.  But, let me tell you a little story...

Years ago, after the birth of my first child, I got sick.  It started as a cold and progressed, and I never went to the doctor.  I was busy gazing at my newborn baby!!  Long story short, I must have done some damage to my ear/nose/throat system, because I started having trouble with food smells and tastes and I couldn’t eat normally for a long time.  This eventually led to my becoming a vegetarian, but that’s a story for a different time.  During this time, we took a trip to the east coast, to visit my uncle and his family at the Jersey Shore.  I was trying to explain my food issues to my relatives (as we were attempting to order take out or something) and my uncle said, “Well, you don’t look like you’re missing any meals.”  Dick move, huh?  Now, while he was right, I didn’t look like I was missing any meals (despite the fact that I could hardly eat anything for a while), I was fairly traumatized by this event.  Years later, as we planned another trip to go out east to the shore, the idea of seeing my uncle actually inspired me to lose 20 pounds.  I’m not proud of the fact that his shitty, mean comment affected me that much, but I am secretly a little grateful to him.  And I looked great on the trip back there, I really did, but he said nothing.  His wife told me I was aging well.

What?  You’re not affected by what other people think of you?  Well, good for you.  

The long and short of it is that I love food. I love to eat.  I know people who could have a bowl of cereal for dinner and be fine with it.  Not me.  That’s why this feels like such cosmic injustice, this lousy metabolism business.

So, I’m going to get these 10 pounds off, dammit.  And then, I’m going to celebrate with a giant bowl of pasta and a glass of red wine.