Leave Me Alone, I Hate You

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

I gained 5lbs in four days. (I also passed out in a haze of wine while sitting upright in a chair, playing a rousing game of Scattergories with company that included -- among others -- my in-laws. But, hey, we'll tackle the drink beast later.)

Point is, I've been on a diet for about 25 years -- and I'm exhausted. I was (and still am) the chubbiest of 5 children. It's cute when you're little. My father recently hung all these old black and white photos of me with jelly on my chin(s) or blowing out birthday candles with my cheeks puffed out and cherubic. Yeah. I'm cute. So damn cute my babysitter dropped me down the stairs once. When I revealed this horrifying, yet isolated, incident of child abuse to my mother, the babysitter simply shrugged and said, "She's heavy."

She had a point.

But it got better. I have photographic proof that by age 11 I was a fairly normal kid. Average, even. Ok, I could never do a single pull up during the Presidential Fitness Test they gave us every year in gym class. Could you? Please. Pull ups?!

We're children, not sailors.

Anyway, sometime during my short-lived average weight existence, I remember a friend asking me if I'd like to go on a diet with her. Why not?! Sounds exotic and grown-up. Like frenching. Besides, I had nothing else to do.

Here is a window into the tortured soul of a premature and chronic dieter:

August 23, 1984

Well I have decided to get reacquainted with my diary. I am about to re-enter school after a boring summer at the age of 13 in the 8th grade. I don't know what the 8th grade will be like, but I know one thing, I have to lose a lot of weight. Right now I weigh 136lbs. That's horrible!! But I can't seem to lose it. I figured if I could get to know myself, I could lose the weight I need to lose. This is a great way to do so. But now I am tired and need some sleep! More tomorrow...

...we were supposed to go to the fair today. It was raining for a little while but now its just cloudy. Hadley just called asking if I knew where Leslie was. While she was talking she said to her brother, "Shut up Doug!" I said, "really, shut up." And then he said "you know where your dinner hangs." What an asshole! I hate him! His sister is fatter than I am! He should talk, he's about as handsome as my rear end!

Wow, get to know me diary! You call me fat, and I'll turn on my best friend...or the fattest girl near me.

And so the dieting began.

That initial diet taught me a lot of things. Like how to make cookies, baking only about 6 out of every batch, and eating the rest of the dough raw while watching reruns of Kung Fu. (the Kung Fu part was not my idea, I had older brothers, you live with what you get television-wise)

It taught me how to waste hours of my youth standing in front of a full length mirror comparing abdomens with the photo on the inside cover of my Madonna album, hoping one day to look like her. (that's 80's Madonna people, its an easier goal to reach)

And it introduced me to aerobics. Ha! Even better, it introduced me to the Jamie Lee Curtis aerobics-themed film "Perfect" -- and I'm telling you, all diet fatigue aside, this movie is worth a second glance. If only for the enjoyment of watching John Travolta play a "journalist".

Later in life it also taught me how to play a fun game with old photos called "Fatter? Thinner? Or the Same?" (FTOS) I warn you, this game can be addictive and dangerous. It should only be played with close friends. Under no circumstances should you play FTOS with someone you are dating, want to date -- or even someone you once dated, have no interest in, but who you would like to imagine still wants you deep down.

Yep. 25 years now, and I've learned something else about dieting...

No matter how fat you think you are, you can always be fatter.

And believe me when I say (to my 13 year old self ) -- I would sell your skinny soul to the devil, the circus or whatever hell you can imagine just to weigh 136 goddam pounds again, you ungrateful teenager!

In the wake of all the winning and losing that elections inevitably bring, I would like to write about the fine art of losing gracefully.

Well, actually, I would like to write about how I know nothing about this fine art. I am a sore loser. I have been a sore loser my whole life, as evidenced by this diary entry from 6th grade:

May 5th, 1982

Today Leslie beat me in a flute challenge in band. I'm better than her. It's the truth. I'm not just saying that. I truly am. I'm going to prove it too! I just don't think I can stand being 2nd best to that bitch! She's so god damn perfect! I can't stand it. She is so flat though, I can see why no boys like her. She's also so scummy. If she would squeeze her hair, we wouldn't have an oil shortage. She also thinks Louise likes her. Ha! Louise thinks she's a pain in the ass! And she is!!! As of now Leslie is not my friend! It's not like she was or ever will be.

At least she's moving soon.

Leslie was my friend. My very good friend, in fact. She was flat-chested, yes, but we were 11 years old -- we were ALL flat chested. While I think it bears noting that I showed an early concern about political issues such as the oil shortage, Leslie's hair was no more or less greasy than my own. And I'm sure that Louise (my older sister) was very fond of the flat chested young flutist.

I took defeat very personally then, and I still do. It's an ugly trait, and part of a lifelong obsession I have with fairness. I'm filled from toe to skull with secret, evil thoughts about everyone who has ever wronged me. Vengeance will be mine, I am convinced.

I keep a list.

No, don't worry, I'm not furiously scribbling names in the back of my copy of Catcher in the Rye --- mine is a mental list. It's an ode to petty injustices. The parties I wasn't invited to, the boys who never called me back. Promotions I never got, and the boss who once threw a dictionary at my head, yelling: "Here! You need this more than I do!" The girl who kissed the boy she SO knew I liked. That asshole who cut me off on the freeway, then gave me the finger. The 19 year old girls wearing $1000 shoes who blatantly litter and giggle when I reprimand them. People who cut in line. Good looking people. People who use "summer" as a verb. People younger than me who are incredibly successful. (yikes, that portion of the list is getting looooong)

You get the picture. Perpetually outraged.

I know, I know. Forgive. Forget. Be a better person. Rise above it all. Hugs not drugs. Blah, blah, blah.

I'm sorry, that's just not how I roll.

I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to right all these wrongs, but I figure it's good to have goals.

Plus, I really was the best damn flute player in the 6th grade band!

Seriously.

I'm not just saying that...

Ask Louise!

In honor of this historic day, I offer you a retrospective of my election manias throughout the years:

10/20/92
I saw Bill Clinton speak in Daley Plaza downtown. It was amazing. There were over 10,000 people there. Everyone was psyched. Jim Belushi got up and introduced Ron Brown, then Mayor Daley introduced Carol Mosely Braun - then she introduced Al Gore. He was a great speaker. He had the whole crowd chanting along with him. Both the candidates wives were there, they spoke briefly then Bill took the stage and talked about "change" (economics, education, etc.) Then Michael Bolton sang "When I'm Back on My Feet Again" and dedicated it to everyone who was going to get their piece of the American dream back with Bill Clinton as president. Then they played the song "Power to the People" over the speakers. I know its all a big publicity thing, but I ate it up! It was absolutely thrilling to be a part of a crowd so packed with emotion. They really made you feel like you were on the edge of a new era. Bush's days are numbered!

Ahhh, yes. There is nothing quite like your "first time." So glad mine came complete with Jim Belushi and a stirring soundtrack of Michael Bolton tunes. Really, how could I not be psyched?!

Clinton: Round Two...

11/5/96

Clinton has won the Presidential election. No shocker there. What strikes me as a shocker is that 3 years ago I was in Washington, D.C. God what twisted road brought me here?

"Here" meant Los Angeles. Clearly I had lost my youthful enthusiasm for politics at that point, and instead turned my attentions to cultivating a deep and abiding lack of self confidence.

Oh Michael Bolton, where are you now? Why have you forsaken me?

12/18/00

Election termination has arrived. Just a few days ago, Al Gore conceded the Presidency to idiot-elect George W. Bush. In his speech Gore was a gentleman, a diplomat, a grown up -- and HEY AMERICA, he was THE WINNER! God Bless America...you can't win for winning. So I write this so that I will remember how ANGRY I am. How distrustful I feel about the "Supreme" court. This has been a disgraceful display by Republicans who have acted as though they have somehow won by a landslide rather than by a technicality...(insert more talk of this faux landslide)...So FINE. TAKE, and I do mean TAKE the presidency. But know that we know the truth. We won. The Clinton era is NOT over. And we will be watching.

AH-HA! The political passion has returned! But it is accompanied NOT by wide-eyed optimism, but rather vengeful rage and an inexplicable desire to "watch". And believe me, I did some hard core watching during this administration. (note to former self: that Clinton era was so over.)

11/6/02

So, the Republicans win the goddam senate. Good lord. Where is the justice? I HATE the world. Hate it. I feel so separate from my government. My God, I can't even remember hope. Can't remember why I ever went to D.C. BAH!

Bah, indeed! There were some dark times for me over the past 8 years.

Sadly, I didn't keep a good record of my reactions to the 2004 election (it was all a haze of "security moms" and swiftboating), but it's safe to say I wasn't pleased.

What I do remember about the convention in 2004 was a speech given by a guy named Barack Obama. I could never navigate traffic quickly enough to get home in time to watch the coverage, so I would slip into my company's conference room to watch. It was a speech that rattled the rafters in all the best ways. And when it was over, I realized I was no longer alone in the room. Our night janitor was in the doorway watching too.

"That kid is gonna be president someday," he said.

Then he went back to work, end of conversation.

Four years later, and we'll see if that proves to be true. I hope he does win. Not because I think he can solve all the world's problems and will never disappoint me...but because it feels good to trade in the vengeful rage for a dose of wide-eyed optimism again.

I may even listen to some Michael Bolton.

When I was 13, I got a summer job babysitting for the family that lived across the street. They had two little girls, approximately 5 and 7 years old. It was a big responsibility, and clearly the workplace stress was taking its toll:

June 18, 1984

Well this morning I got I got up and prepared myself for another day of babysitting. I feel that the job may be preparing me for what may come in the future. I have many responsibilities as a child and they will continue to grow as I mature. Lately I have been kind of heavy. Emotionally, I mean. I have to lighten up. I am only a kid, I have to live life to the fullest and enjoy! But in the back of my mind I will keep saying: someday, someday...

Wow. For a teenager, I was really into preparation. Or at least the idea of it.

I have no idea what the hell was going on in the back of my mind, but I can tell you that I was a profoundly bad babysitter. One day, the younger girl gave me some back talk so I banished her to her bedroom upstairs. The older, more civilized child and I settled in front of the television to watch The Young and the Restless. The content (affairs, coma, betrayal) was perhaps not well suited to a 7-year-old, but I didn't hear her complaining. What can I say? We were young. We were restless.

Suddenly I heard her sister calling out from her prison cell/bedroom. Hard to make out at first, but it grew louder. "I'm having fun! I'm having FUN! I'm having FUH-HUN!"

The little hooligan was taunting me! I marched my 13-year-old ass up those stairs and opened the bedroom door to find her staging an elaborate barbie ho-down complete with ponies! I did the only thing I could do.

I systematically knocked each and every one of those horses on their plastic rumps. (or is it "hind quarters"? I was never a horsey girl...) Either way, take that, Stacey!

Another day I took the girls to the beach. Not much else to do in a small town on Lake Michigan. There was a lifeguard on duty, so no problem. Pretty sweet gig, actually. I laid back, closed my eyes, caught some rays.

I felt something. A tap on my shoulder. Someone was blocking my sun! I opened my eyes to find Stacey standing there, holding her mother's hand. Without my knowledge or consent, she had taken it upon herself to walk away from the beach and over to her parents hardware store, 3 blocks away.

I know what you're thinking...she is SO fired. Strangely enough, all Stacey's mom did was drop the kid off and head back to work.

It was a different economy. Harder to lose a job back then.

To quote the back of my mind: "Someday...someday..."

August 24, 1982

Me and Hadley are going downtown today. She is coming in about five minutes, but she'll be late.

When school starts I'm going to try to make lots of new friends. I'm going to join lots of clubs.

I don't want to spend my life without dates. I'm going to get my hair cut.

That's all now.

This diary entry may seem like the naive ramblings of an 11-year-old with a terminally tardy friend and a premature fixation on dating, but it's bigger than that. It's about rebirth. The innate human desire to disappear for 3 months and return as someone way better looking. Ok so, technically, I've had more haircuts in my lifetime than dates and the only club I currently belong to is a book club filled with women who like wine more than reading...

Still I remain a big believer in starting life over.

I resolve to change anything and everything about myself at least once a month. I stay exactly the same, but that's not really the point.

My younger sister and I refer to this process as creating our "new person." We like to discuss how that "new person" is going to dress, think, socialize and even read in a shockingly new and positive way -- changing our lives and the lives of those around us forever.

Go ahead. Create a new person. Anyone can do it. Though, I recently had to scold my sister for creating a new person that was far too much like her old person, so here are a few things to keep in mind:

Dream big. Remember, this is not you, this is someone much cooler. This new person probably wouldn't be caught dead with your old person. (no offense)

You'll likely need a hair cut and/or dye job. Don't go too short, new people need the freedom of an occasional hair flip. Also, know your limits. In the 8th grade I was so desperate for a new person that I accidentally got a perm. Not a big deal, except that I already had extremely curly hair.

You may need to lose weight. Or maybe you don't. Either way, we could all probably stand to eat a little less cheese.

Those old jeans have GOT to go.

Those old friends have GOT to go. Old friends will fail to recognize the newness of your person and sabotage your efforts by bringing up the fact that you used to wear black jeans, cuffed at the ankle and listen to Hanson -- something your new person would clearly never do. (*Note: see jeans instruction above*)

And remember, if the new person doesn't work out, don't despair. There are always more people to become.

Newer people.

Better people.

So last night I had dinner and drinks, and drinks, and drinks with a couple of friends.

It was an early bird special.

I'm on a budget.

There's an economic crisis, people. Happy hours are in order! Patriotic even!

I digress.

Somewhere in the midst of our conversations (which ranged from the aforementioned economic crisis to my friend's former job as the mail reader on the short-lived Richard Simmons television series "Dream Maker") -- it was suggested to me that I either start a blog or have a baby.

As I said, I'd had a few drinks (don't judge) so I'm not sure why these are my only two options, but I've decided to go with the blog.

Blogs are free. Babies are very expensive, as far as I can tell. And they shit their pants. This is not their fault -- they're babies -- but I'm just saying...

Blogs are basically a diary only without a lock. A few years ago, as part of her fruitless attempt to rid her house of all of her children's useless junk, my mother sent me a bunch of my old diaries. I wasn't strong on dating my entries, but they basically began when I learned to write and have never stopped. I'm not gonna lie to you, they're dull. Yet I felt compelled to catalog every dull moment of my young dull life. What is fascinating about them is, these diaries prove I have been the same person since the 5th grade. For example:

May 21 (somewhere around the age of 10)

I just got back from camp. I went with my fifth grade class. After I got home Angie asked me to come to her house with 3 other people. What a dope! I hate Angie! While we were at camp a bunch of roomers went around about the counselors being in bed together. I don't know if they are true or not. (time lapse) I have not gone to Angie's party yet. I hope I sprain my ankle or something like that. I'm too tired to go to her dumb party. And I'm sure, she calls me up the minute I get home from 3 nights at camp to sleep at her house.

I HATE ANGIE!


Ok, setting aside the disturbing possibility that the teenagers charged with the care and well being of a gaggle of 10-year-olds were instead getting it on in the woods -- this is clearly not a "normal" reaction to being extended an invitation to a party. But 20+ years later, I stand by my Angie hatred. I don't like sleep overs. I don't like being away from home for long periods of time (unless on vacation in a four star hotel). And most of the time, I'm happy to sit on my couch, watching reruns of Golden Girls, and not engaging in any form of social interaction.

Back off, Angies!

Incidentally, the next day I wrote:

I didn't have such a bad time after all. I'm surprised.