My sister is the artsy crafty type. I am what can only be described as... not. I cannot even go into Michael's craft store, for fear of the anxiety attack I had last time I was sent in there on an errand. I mean with full blown hyperventilating, hysterical crying, the whole shebang. Seriously embarrassing. It's a freakin craft store for crissakes. But, my anxiety apparently does not understand humiliation, just irrational fear. It cannot be reasoned with. Trust me, I tried.
So, having painted the scene, imagine my "delight" when my sister says that it's been a dream of hers for seven years to have a Crankpots party. What is Crankpots, you ask? It's a pottery place. One of those do it yourself decorating places. Sam's dream consists of a set, with a piece done by each of her peeps. She chose a teapot, and venti mugs. I did a mug. And I ended up having a brilliant good time!
At first, the panic was palatable, though, I gotta tell ya. Until I had an idea of what I was going to do, an action plan, and a stencil or two, I was freaking OUT. Deep breaths, asking instructions a few times, and reading the instruction page over and over helped. A few clarifications, a stencil of a frog, and I was off!
My mug sounds totally dumb, but I'm excited to see it when it's done. I own an orange little car, with tree frog stickers in all the windows, on the seats, steering wheel, license plate holder, shoulder strap protectors, and rearview mirror. So I did an orange mug with a frog stencilled on it, in teal, outlined in black. Then up one side of the handle I stencilled "Success", and up the other "Believe". I hope it doesn't look too third grade once it's glazed and kilned.
I would have pics, but my stupid camera died. Poo.
We were good toads, too... we brought veggies, dip, hummus, whole wheat crackers, cheese strings, shrimp and fat free dip to Crankpots. Then we decided on the way home to grab salad, a chicken and fixins and have supper. All healthy. I grabbed portobello mushrooms and shrimp and sauteed it for on top of my salad greens with a couple ounces of chicken boob. I topped it off with a tablespoon of light olive oil vinegrette. I was happy with my choices.
Then... someone made a DQ run. I was GOING to be good. I said NO THANKS first. But then they took so long to get out the door, that my interal fat bitch had time to win the battle and actually CHASED them, waving money, yelling "PEANUT BUSTER PARFAIT, PEANUT BUSTER PARFAIT".
Needless to say, I spent a good portion of time on the toilet later that night. My healthy body does not appreciate the fatfull full sugar goodness that is a peanut buster parfait HALF as much as my tastebuds do. And why I ate those whole grain tortilla chips after? I don't fucking know. They were there. Nuff said. Get off my back, willya??
Actually, overall, I'm totally okay with it... lol. I ate very very well during the day, starting with a smart breakfast of oatmeal, so it was an evening of indulgence, not an entire day. And it's not like I don't have the wiggle room, for crissake. I woke up this morning weighing 146.6. Considering my goal weight is 147, not so bad. I work damn hard to maintain this body, and not go back to being fat. The struggle is realizing that one night of indulgent eating does not a fat bitch make. Weeks on end of such behaviour does. Days on end will eventually. Two days? Not so much. I only ever go two days, then hop right back into my routines.
My boss Kerri really put it into perspective for me with her talk about living her life in a perpetual state of maintaining. When it comes to housework, work work, weight management, everything. She hates spending an entire day cleaning a messy house. So fifteen minutes a day to maintain it is what she does. As far as her weight, she said to me "losing weight is one of the hardest things I've done, and I don't want to do it again, so I work to maintain it". She's right. 30 minutes a day of moving, and ten minutes to plan your menu, and you don't have to work so fucking hard to lose. I love that thought process.
Today I go to the airport and pick up my mommy. My broken mommy. She has a busted ankle. Sammy and I are picking her up, taking her for lunch, then some shopping, and then dropping her at the Tswassen ferry, where she will be picked up on the other side by our cousin. Mom has appointments in Victoria Monday and Tuesday to see the sleep apnea doctor and the anastesiologist. When they have given their approval, a surgery date will be set for the gastrobypass. Gah.
I'm still not convinced that this is the best option, but mom seems to be grasping it as a lifeline. And reality is, she is NOT me, and I cannot expect her to have the same willpower I do. I have a hard time with that because I relate so damn much of who I am with her, that when I can do something she can't it slaps me. But I guess reality is that some of my genes had to come from my sperm donor. I just always forget about him, lol.
I'm scared to death of mom's surgery. I'm scared to death that she will not make it through. I'm scared to death that it will be a temporary solution and that the physical changes will have no effect on the mental issues that keep her at the weight she is, and stop her from doing the diet and excercise choices that would make the surgery unnecessary.
But, it's not my body. It's not my life. It's not my choice. I support her in her choices, even if I don't agree with them. Even if they scare the piss out of me.
Whoa, this got deep. And with that I'm done.
Thanks for listening,