Category — Motivation

I grew up in a great neighborhood. First of all, our block had a cul du sac, which meant that we didn’t get much traffic (except for the kind that thought there was an exit out the back). Secondly, we had a really cool hill (both on the street AND in our driveway), so we spent most of our summer days hurtling our bikes, skateboards, Big Wheels and roller skates (not blades, thank you very much) down the hill at *death-defying* speeds. When we weren’t tempting fate, we were doing “bike rallies” — which really just consisted of a bunch of us going ’round and ’round and ’round the “big block,” hooting and hollering (to beckon kids out of their houses) while blasting some Gordon Lightfoot song on our AM transistor radios and clothes-pinning playing cards to our spokes so we’d sound like ‘motorcycles.

It was great fun, and we never tired of the monotony.

Unless we were doing something else – like playing kickball (running the bases we’d painted on the street in reflective spray paint), tag football, HORSE, hide-and-go-seek (in the dark, naturally), or – on windy days – flying kites from Mr. Taylor’s front lawn.

His house was prime real estate for a number of reasons:

1. It was situated at the intersection of a “T”, meaning that you could run up the block (to launch your kite) and end up straight on his lawn (which was on a hill, so you could comfortably recline on your elbows.)
2. It had super thick St. Augustine grass (which was not particularly soft, like Bermuda or Fescue, but did create a nice cushion.)
3. He had apricot and plum trees in the backyard (so we didn’t have to go home when we got hungry.)

Yes, our neighborhood was quite active, but also competitive. With a nearly equal ratio of boys-to-girls (boys being older), that meant there were lots of Barbies getting kidnapped (mine, mostly) and flour bombs being dropped on houses, and mock wars being fought in the streets. It also meant that kite flying was not just for fun: It was serious business, not to be entered into lightly. Sometimes, we would have “dog fights” at low-altitudes, where the “loser” found his line sliced or his kite torpedoed into a tree. The winner would ink a skull and crossbones on his kite to signal another kill.

To up the ante, eventually, the boys learned that fishing line presented a greater defense to the opposition, as it was much harder to see, didn’t snap so easily, AND had the added bonus of distance! You could fly your kite A LOT FARTHER on fishing line, than you could on standard kite string. Some boys were very smart and ran their kites from fishing rods (for easy “reel-based retrieval”); others used wooden dowels, or just held the spool in hand.

Never one to miss out on a great idea, I checked around and learned that the best line was something called “100# Test,” and it came on “450 yard” spools. If memory serves, it was about $1.99 at the corner Thrifty Store.

Not one to let St. Augustine grow beneath my feet, I hopped on my trusty bike and headed to Thrifty to pick-up my very own secret weapon. I wanted to be the first girl to beat a boy (which did happen, by the way…except that it was Howard, and most people weren’t very impressed by this victory, but that’s not the point of the story…) Anyway, at first blush, the idea seemed reasonable enough: Find the fishing line marked “100# test, 450 yd length” and buy it. Unfortunately, when I got there, I learned that there were many different KINDS of line (nylon, braided, salt water, fresh water, fly-fishing, stream) AND, they were all priced quite differently. As a matter of fact, *some of them* cost as much as $5.00 per spool – for only 50 yards!

After about 20 minutes of indecision, I determined that the most important factor was PRICE, at which point, I narrowed it down to the nylon line and grabbed for the appropriate spool. Which would have been the end of the story. Except…I noticed that, FOR THE VERY SAME PRICE, I could get something called “80# Test” and it had (get this): 975 YDS of line!!! In other words, whoever was smart enough to fly their kite from it would SURELY win the neighborhood award for “greatest distance.”

The case was settled and I bought my fishing line. I couldn’t WAIT to attach it to my kite and show the boys how it was really done.

I can remember the day like it was yesterday: There were the proverbial fluffy white clouds dotting a cerulean blue sky and it was just windy enough to launch the kite, but warm enough to bask in the shade on Mr. Taylor’s lawn. I took my “Sky Spy” kite (replete with new 80# test fishing line) out into the street…assumed the position…and ran! Soon enough, the kite was aloft, and I was gleefully unspooling yard-after-yard of fishing line. My kite was the envy of the block…at least, as far as anyone could tell…you see…at some point, I had let out nearly ALL of my line, meaning my kite was nothing more than a tiny, 2-eyed speck in a big, blue sky.

This was great fun. For about 15 minutes. (Seriously, how long SHOULD you fly a kite?)

Soon enough, moms started bellowing out their front doors for their kids to “come home for dinner!” Mine was no exception and, not one to disobey, I immediately set about reeling my kite in. As it turns out, my brother was ALSO flying HIS kite, so we both had to bring our Sky Spies back to earth. Misery loves company.

Except…

• Did I mention that my brother was using 100# test/450 yd fishing line on his kite?
• Did I mention that he wasn’t shooting for a “distance” record that particular day?
• Do you remember the “rock incident” from Big Sur?

Well…he got his kite down pretty fast…in like…five minutes, and quick-as-a-whip, he was ready to head home to wash up for dinner. As a matter of fact, EVERYONE had their kites in hand pretty fast. Except me***

*** I refer you to the aforementioned 975 yard spool.

Needless to say, the task of winding my kite back to Mr. Taylor’s front lawn was a daunting (and lengthy) one, and soon enough, my brother was back to gloat tell me that I was “in really big trouble with mom and dad.” I asked for his help, but I’m *pretty sure* I didn’t get it. He might even have laughed at me (but I don’t want to fib if I’m not sure.)

These are NOT my hands. That is pretty much how my line looked, though.

Anyway…there I sat…for 1, solid hour. By this time, of course, it was dark. The street lights were on. I was alone…and YES, my kite was still aloft — SOMEWHERE OUT THERE. Lord only knows how, because it didn’t seem to be windy anymore.

Which might explain what happened next: I’m fairly certain I was within 200 short yards of retrieving my kite, when the darnedest thing happened: It began innocently enough with a tiny “plink” and then…quicker than you can say “I spy a loose kite in the sky”…the tension on my spool was gone…and the remaining line inexplicably drifted to the pavement…and across the treetops, front lawns, power lines, streets, and chimneys.

Hmm…Let me see if I got this straight: I spent ONE SOLID HOUR reeling in my kite, risking life, limb AND grounding, JUST so I could LOSE MY FREAKING KITE SOMEWHERE OVER BOYAR PARK (1 mile away?)

In a word: YES.

In retrospect, the moral of that story is pretty simple: MORE IS NOT ALWAYS BETTER AND SOMETIMES MORE IS LESS.

The corollary is: CHEAPER ISN’T ALWAYS BEST.

So, how do I apply this to my Bariatric After Life™? Well, just like I tried to get the most bang for my buck with that blasted fishing line (without fully understanding its usage or considering whether or not it even made sense), I have tried to do the same thing with food. There have been times where I have tried to “get away” with eating things that are “not as healthy as other things,” (like: sugar free cookies), and there are times that I ended up eating WAY TOO MANY of those things that are not as healthy as other things (like sugar free gummy bears)…and well…I paid the price. I learned the hard way that before you choose a fishing line (or food), you really need to understand HOW YOU INTEND TO USE IT and whether it makes sense.

I guess you could say, you need to choose the right “pound test” for the job!

In my defense (thanks, in no small part to brilliant marketing) I really believed that a lot of those food choices were equal to the alternatives (even BETTER) – just like that fishing line seemed equal to the alternative (even BETTER) — but the reality was, I lost sight of what I was really trying to achieve; I forgot what was reasonable; I forgot the real goal.

At the end of the day, any kite-flyer worth his salt will probably tell you that the goal to successful flight is MANAGEABILITY. It’s not always about distance or height – yes, you can do tricks – it’s about maintaing control of the kite. It’s about proving that you are in charge — not the other way around.

Weight management is the same way: It’s not about some magical number on the scale, or some teeny number on your clothes. It’s not about weighing what you weighed in high school, or squishing your shrinkly butt into those acid-washed “mom-jeans” from the 80′s. It’s about MANAGING your health and feeing good doing it.

You know…as I look back at that summer…so long ago on Mr. Taylor’s front lawn…I realize my kite was flying ME. Just like when I ate those things that seemed okay.

These days, I’m flying MYSELF — Oh, maybe not as “high” as other folks, but at least I’m airborne, and — hey, my life is manageable. At least for today.

Now, where did I put my black marker? I think I need to add a skull and crossbones to my scale…I killed another pound today!

When I was about six, my parents took my big brother and me camping at Big Sur. If you’ve never been there, it’s a stunning area on the central California coast, just off picturesque Highway 1 (Pacific Coast Highway). There are towering redwoods (though, not the tallest on the coast — those are further north in Humboldt) and lush ferns (think: Jurassic Park or Return of the Jedi, and you’re close), babbling brooks…and WILD BOARS. Yes, wild boars. My big brother, Greg, used to traumatize me by taking me on *long*  hikes *way out in the forest* and convincing me that there were wild boars hiding  in every burned out tree trunk — or, if they weren’t there at the moment, they’d be returning any second (and they would probably eat me!)

Despite the wild boars (and scary big brother) Big Sur was wonderful and we vacationed there several summers.

Side note: My mom (God love her) was not the…um…er…outdoorsy type, though she gamely tried to be (so I’ll give her credit). On many trips, we all slept in a big (heavy) canvas tent with a little porta-potty just inside the “door,” so it was pretty *rough.* Being an RV person myself, I can understand why tent camping might not be the most inviting thing to a girly-girl, but I think my mom *might* have taken that whole “comforts-of-home” thing a tad far…she actually packed her LIGHT UP MAKE-UP MIRROR  so she could do a “full-face” each morning. I am not kidding you! This mirror was like one of those old-school beauty mirrors with bulbs dow either side — AND (since this was the deluxe model) — three lighting conditions: Indoor/Fluorescent, Outdoor (camping), and Evening. I loved that mirror and she always looked beautiful in it, but it is sorta funny to think back now and imagine doing that myself. Okay, maybe I would…

But, back to my little story. On this particular trip, my dad decided it would be a great idea for us to hike up to the “famed” Big Sur waterfall. No, this is not the ‘really’ famous Pfeiffer Falls, but rather, the smaller, less notable, but still pretty ‘Big Sur Waterfall.” it was a very easy 1/2 mile hike, but to my little 6-year old legs, it felt like a full day’s walk (which meant that my dad would have to carry me on his back sometimes…)

Less-Famous Big Sur Waterfall

Well, after about 7 hours (or 30 minutes, depending upon who you talk to), we arrived at our destination: BIG SUR FALLS! My dad went right up to it and let the water *dangerously* run into his hand! Meanwhile, my mother kept yelling at him to ‘be careful,’ and ‘come back!’ While this was going on, my brother had found some neat, flat rocks to walk out onto, which put him sort of towards the middle of the stream. He was very brave and, as much as I wanted to go, my mom wouldn’t let me.

This disappointed me to no end and I was completely inconsolable.

Until my dad started throwing rocks into the creek. Naturally, *I* started throwing rocks, and we had great fun.

Kerplunk! Sploosh! Splash! Kathunk! Whee!

And, just when I thought life couldn’t get any better, my dad encouraged me to throw “overhand.”

Now, up to this point, I’d been throwing underhand (granny-style) because that’s what 6-year old girls do. I told him I couldn’t throw overhand and didn’t want to. But he insisted that I “at least try.” So, I did. I found a really great rock, took aim at the stream and…let her rip.

I would love to tell you my aim was true and that I hit the stream right where I targeted, but that isn’t *exactly* what happened. No…actually, I beaned my brother in the back of the head (and he bled…a little). That’s right, I hurled a pitch that would make Fernando Valenzuela proud — right at his noggin’.

Oh. Brother.

Not ironically, Greg was extremely unhappy about this event and, as far as I can remember, called me a really bad name. Something like, ‘Stupid!’ — which is as coarse as it got in my house. Maybe I deserved it…a little…but I didn’t mean to hit him. I was AIMING somewhere else!

Well…I was totally devastated after I hit my brother with that rock. Absolutely demolished…and I cried and cried and cried (until I started hiccuping and had to stop because my mom said she didn’t want to hear another peep out of me, and you KNOW how that goes.) Eventually, I got over it (although, I think my brother is still a bit steamed about it to this day) –– AND –– I did finally learn how to throw OVERHAND.

Which brings me to my point: Sometimes, we MUST try things that we aren’t really sure we can accomplish…even though we might fail…because, sometimes (maybe often), we WILL fail.

Like, trying to lose weight. How many diets did I try (and fail) before weight loss surgery? Here’s a hint: About the same number of pitches I threw as pitcher for my summer league girls softball team, the Bat-Her-Ups. Yeah, I know, stupid name, but we had super cute uniforms – blue and green polo stripes with white collars – don’t ask. To be clear, it was soft pitch, and it was underhand, BUT when I was not pitching, I played 2nd base, which meant that I DID have to throw OVERHAND, so at SOME POINT I had to figure out how to do it, right? Let’s just say it’s a skill I acquired somewhere between the time my brother threatened to hit ME with a rock and about age 9.

How did I learn this particular skill? By trying — over and over and over — until I got it right. True, I was never a STRONG thrower (so, putting me in right field was a horrible idea without TWO cut-off men), and the ball often went straight into the ground, but thanks to my “pitch back” in the front yard, and some much-needed instruction from my pop, I got fairly accurate at making the ball go where I pointed my toe.

Did you catch that? I learned to point my toe where i wanted the ball to go.

Guess what? I kinda learned the same skill in my Bariatric After Life™! I  learned to look where I want to go (towards healthy weight management) — NOT where I DON’T want to go (towards uncontrollable weight regain) — and guess what? That is where I go (mostly).

However, when I take my eye off the ball (stop journaling my foods, stop working out regularly, stop paying attention to my behaviors, etc.), I veer off course…and the ball goes straight into the ground — OR, I hit MYSELF in the head! D’oh! Fortunately, I get it over the plate more than in the dirt, so I’ll consider my RBI pretty good (and improving)!

Anyway, let me leave you with these two things:

1) Big brothers can be mean, but you shouldn’t hit them in the head with rocks, and
2) Weight management IS possible, if you learn  proper form and practice regularly.

Just like throwing overhand.

Hey guys!

I’ll be speaking at my 3rd WLS Vegas Meet & Greet (2nd for WLSFA) in May. Are you coming?

Here are the event details:

What: 2012 WLSFA Mother of All Meet & Greets: Kick It Up a Notch!
When: May 18-20, 2012
Where: BALLY’S Hotel & Casino (on the Strip, baby!)
Price: $110/Person

Discount Room Rates Available at Ballys.com

Here is what I’ll be talking about:

KICK IT WITH CARI

Whether you want to Kick some bad habits to the curb, Kick Start some healthy new ones, or Kick Around some fresh ideas for living a happy Bariatric After Life™, I’ll have you Kicking up your Heels with an energetic, informative and inspiring talk. You’ll get a real Kick out of my interactive presentation and might even get that Kick in the Pants you’ve been needing! So, come Kick It with ME. You’ll be glad you did!

I’ll see ya in Vegas, Baby!

In case you didn’t know…

When I’m not trying on new shoes or fixing my hair, I’m busy “kicking it” with Dr. Connie Stapleton as one-half of A Post-Op & A Doc – A dynamic duo that brings a unique brand of funny-but-firm wisdom to a hungry audience. We’ll BOTH be in Vegas, so please be sure to check us out!

Have you watched our videos?
Have you friended us yet?

OBESITY ISN’T FUNNY

By now, I’m thinking that most of you have already read Dr. John Kelly’s unfortunate article, where he used one-liners to “find humor” on the subject of obesity. If you haven’t read it, I’m not going to post a link to it because I think enough people have already read and responded to it, and there is really nothing new that could be added to the discussion.

That article (and the reaction from the obese community) inspired today’s post, because everyone has the right to be unfunny.

Let’s begin:

COMEDY IS NOT A LAUGHING MATTER

Comedy is important to me. Being funny takes guts and you have to be a risk taker to pull it off well. Sometimes that works out great; other times…not so much. Just take a poll of people who know me, and ask them to describe me in 5 words. I guarantee you, the word “Funny” will be near the top (and might be repeated). It’s who I am, and it’s a part of myself that I’ve always embraced — especially when I was obese. You see, being funny was a great way to deflect attention from my obvious *indelicate condition.* Like most comedians, I used my humor as protection from the world, figuring that if I said something derogatory about myself first, others would realize that nothing they could say would hurt me. I was offensively offensive. (Or defensively defensive. Or defensively offensive…I can’t be sure).

However you define it, you and I know it was a lie, but that didn’t stop me from believing it.

LAUGHING UNTIL YOU CRY

Have you ever laughed so hard, tears streamed down your face and you couldn’t see straight? There’s a fine line between humor and anger — at least in my experience. The thing that truly makes something “funny” is the kernel of truth behind the joke. We feel better when we can laugh at an uncomfortable truth; it diffuses the tension. And, any comedian worth his salt will string you along, dropping bread crumbs of your life experiences so you can follow the joke to it’s “inevitably” funny conclusion. He’ll invite you to agree with him so you can laugh with him. How many times have you listened to a comedian and said, “Oh my gosh! That’s happened to me!” or, “That is SO TRUE!”

Basically, the comedian’s job is to make sure we are on his side, in order to keep the laughs coming.

WHEN THE JOKE FALLS FLAT
(Alternately known as, “Oh Crap!” or “I Take it Back!”)

Unfortunately, humor is not a guaranteed thing, and what one person finds funny, another might find disgusting or offensive; what I laugh about might not be what you laugh about, which is why there are so many forms of humor: Visual, slapstick, potty, crass, edgy, whimsical, goofy, biting, audible, sardonic, droll, juvenile, etc. Ever think about the number of comedy movies out there? Trust me, I’m a very discerning comic, and I admit that I don’t find much of the contemporary movies to be funny. But, just watch my daughter and husband viewing “Jackass” and you’ll see what I mean. I’m left scratching my head, going “What’s so funny about someone getting locked in a car with a swarm of angry bees?” and my family is saying, “Let’s watch that again! That’s freaking HYSTERICAL!”

Comedians put themselves out there and hope that everything they say or do will be funny. When it isn’t, it can be downright uncomfortable. Ever seen a joke go over like a lead balloon? At best, you’ll hear uncomfortable laughter and throat-clearing; at worst, you’ll get a roomful of boos, or some walk-outs. Comedy isn’t pretty. But, that doesn’t stop us from trying. Maybe we’re slow learners, but as a comic, I LIVE for the laugh. I LOVE it when someone gets my humor. I LOVE it when I can make my best friend laugh so hard, she snorts cherries through her nose and begs for mercy (as best she can between guffaws.) I’m relentless and sadistically string her along — waiting for the moment when the laughter will die down (meaning that she is recovering) just long enough to spring my next salvo on her. It’s my favorite pastime.

But, guess what? Not everybody likes my humor. Some people think I can be mean, while others are sure I’m just trying to be superior by saying things so cerebral, no one will ever get the joke. Trust me, it’s the “Jackass” crowd; I’m convinced…but anyway…

WHEN LAUGHTER IS NOT THE BEST MEDICINE

If you will recall, I began this post with mention of Dr. John Kelly and his unfortunate article. I’ll be honest: I experienced a broad range of emotions when I first read it. Initially, I was disgusted. I remember saying that I thought the man was a “pig.” I might have even said he was a “stupid pig” (I’m not sure). Next, I was dismayed, because I didn’t think the hurtful one liners were even FUNNY. It’s one thing to say something mean that’s funny, and quite another to say something that’s both mean AND unfunny.

Fortunately, I didn’t stop there. I decided to write the “stupid” doctor a letter — but took great care not to lambast or insult him. After all, it’s pretty hard to educate someone you’ve just eviscerated. People are funny that way…

Anyway, here is why I took the time to write the letter:

1. I felt he deserved to be treated the same way I would want to be treated if I found myself in a similarly untenable position.
2. I knew he was already getting run through the meat grinder by angry obese people, and didn’t want to “pig pile” on him.
3. I really wanted an explanation, so I could better understand the “why” behind the article.
4. I truly believed he had made a catastrophic, yet innocent, error; he had a momentary lapse of judgment; he made a huge mistake. I wanted to help him understand why he was getting attacked.

Guess what? He wrote me back — and boy, did I feel his pain. He’d been insulted, verbally assaulted, lambasted, grilled, belittled and yes, even threatened. Why? Because he wrote an INSENSITIVE and UNFUNNY article. He poked fun at an easy target. Everyone laughs at the fat person, right? Sadly, I think what made the situation the worst was this simple fact: HE IS A DOCTOR, and he should *know better.* That’s right, he, more than just about anyone else, should understand the pain of this disease.

Guess what? He’s human and he screwed up.

But…he OWNED it — immediately. He fell on his sword and did everything he could to stuff that genie back into the bottle. But, of course, just like when we (weight loss surgery people) eat something we shouldn’t, and get horribly sick, we can’t undo the damage; we can only try to do better next time and HOPE we are given a second chance. Sadly, that is not at all what happened. He wasn’t given a second chance, and apparently, to some letter writers, only death by a thousand cuts would come close to serving as penance for his grievous sins.

Here’s what confuses me: We (as obese and formerly obese people), demand compassion and understanding. We scream and holler about how insensitive people can be; how rude and judgmental they are; how mean and unforgiving they are. We don’t let anyone get away with ANYTHING that smacks of insensitivity to the obese population.

So, if that’s the case, why wasn’t Dr. Kelly treated with the same compassion and understanding we demand? Why wasn’t he given a chance to explain himself, acknowledge his error, and apologize?

I don’t know about you, but I was given a second-chance when I had weight loss surgery.

I was treated by a doctor who was probably just as frustrated as Dr. Kelly with having to operate on an obese patient — but he operated on me anyway — just as Dr. Kelly does.

Fortunately, there is a lesson to this mess:

We  Should All Be Perfect and Never Make Mistakes.

Wait. Maybe that *isn’t* the lesson, although, to read the hate mail Dr. Kelly received, you’d surely *think* it was.

Let me try that again…

The moral of the story is this:

• Treat others as you wish to be treated
• Take the time to understand what you do not understand
• Make decisions based upon accurate information
• Forgive when forgiveness is honestly requested

Pretty simple, don’t you think?

I am a fan of Dr. Kelly — the man who made a serious mistake.
The man who offended a million people in one fell swoop.
The man who tried to be funny, but wasn’t.
The man who saves people’s live through surgery.
The man who apologized for the error of his ways.
The man who is not being given a second chance.

I’m not asking you to be a fan; I’m asking you to forgive and allow him to make amends. I truly believe he is a “convert to the cause.” He wants to join the battle against bias, stigmatism and criticism of the obese. I think that, if you’ll give him a chance, you might hear something you actually agree with.

At the end of the day, no one issued me death threats when I was obese; I believe Dr. Kelly deserves the same consideration. He is, after all, only human.

What we say is as important as how we say it, and what we hear is most important of all.

I’ve spent a lot of time dissecting my self-talk. I think about how I speak to myself – what tone I use, whether or not I’m condemning myself, and whether I’m being kind, compassionate and loving, or mean, unforgiving and shaming. You’ve heard it said that you should talk to yourself the way you would talk to your friend, and if you wouldn’t say it to them – DON’T say it to yourself.

I’ve done pretty well with cleaning up my self-trash-talking (although I still beat myself up and take a little longer than I’d like to express forgiveness), but something happened this past weekend that really threw me for a loop.

WARNING: I’m going to say something that is significant and pertinent to MYSELF, so (as my trusted friend and business partner, Dr. Connie Stapleton always says…) “don’t hear what I’m NOT saying.”

With that said, here’s where my tale begins: While I was at the final Obesity Help event of the year (Thank you, Long Island) I found myself doing things that I don’t normally do. For starters, I went out to dinner. Twice. And, I ate something other than a salad. Now, you know my travails and you’ve heard all of my pouch woes, so my food choices are often less about tremendous “will-power” and more about what will actually “go down the gullet” (and stay there.) Typically speaking, there just isn’t a great deal out there that I can really “feast upon,” so I tend NOT to go there (if you know what I mean.)

As a result of wanting to be able to eat well when I travel, I pack (Read: schlep) tons of protein with me. I bring shakes, drinks, bars and soy chips. Yup. I’m a walking processed protein factory, but that’s only because it’s über hard to travel with lettuce, vegetables, cottage cheese, salsa, greek yogurt and feta cheese!

But, I digress.

As I said, this time, I did things I don’t normally do. I went out to eat, and I ate. I made healthy choices (sesame encrusted ahi tuna, antipasto and veggies). For the food, anyway. Here’s where things got squirrelly: I had a drink – no, not water. I had a crazy martini drink. I loved it and told myself that, since I never do it, it’s okay. I don’t have a problem with alcohol, and I always keep it in check, so…no biggie.

Except that, later in the evening, I had ANOTHER DRINK. Yes, Me.
Okay…I bowed to some “peer pressure” (which is no justification, but it makes a super great excuse.) Anyway, that was that and I collapsed into bed for the evening. No harm, no foul, though I was a little worse for the wear.

That might have been the end of it…had I not gone out to dinner. AGAIN. THIS TIME, I had TWO DRINKS. Yes, you read that correctly. I ordered two ridiculous drinks…and got loopy. I didn’t like the way I felt and I wished that I could undo what I’d done. But, I couldn’t. So, I was left with my poor choices…and my self-loathing.

It took me until the next morning to figure out the lesson in the behavior. You see, I try to live my life as a positive example for others – and that’s a lot of pressure. No, I don’t try to be perfect, but I do my best to model healthy behaviors that I believe in. I am honest about my shortcomings (hello, Oreos?) and don’t believe in being someone I’m not. I have values that I live by and respect.

So, what’s the deal here? On the face of it, I can tell myself that I’m ashamed that I did this in front of people who expected more of me (but, hat’s the easy thing to say). I can’t undo it, and I’m finding it really hard to forgive myself for my poor choice – though I know forgiveness will come.

Here is where the self-talk comes into play: For so long, I told myself that I wouldn’t drink any alcohol because I “don’t need it,” and because “I don’t feel it’s appropriate” for my healthy lifestyle. I mean, if I say no to sugar in my food, how can I say “okay” to sugar in booze? It’s dishonest.

In other words, I didn’t drink because I shouldn’t drink, which really translated into something that sounded more like, “I CAN’T DRINK.”

Hmmm…

• I am lying to myself when I say it’s “not that bad,” because…it really is that bad.
• I am lying to myself when I say, “I can do whatever I want,” because I know that just because I can, doesn’t mean I should.
• I am lying to myself when I say I can’t, because ultimately, I know that I can.

Chalk it up to personal accountability and taking responsibility for my body. But, make no mistake: Drinking is a choice. It’s not a “don’t” or “can’t.” And that’s where the whole self-talk thing really comes into play. For a long time, I told myself something I knew wasn’t true. Just like a child, I said, “don’t tell me I can’t, because I can.” This weekend, I paid a price, and my self-respect took a hit.

The good news is, it’s only a wasted experience if I DON’T learn anything from it – and I have. Hey, if I have to shovel this much horse-poo, there’d better be a pony under here somewhere, right?

Okay, I know what you’re saying: But, Cari, where is the bigger lesson in all of this???

Here it is: If I CAN drink, but CHOOSE not to, then the same must hold true for FOOD. I CAN eat Oreos, cheap carbs and unhealthy foods, but I must CHOOSE not to because, doing so will compromise my personal values.

Phew..that is some heavy stuff…and I won’t say I’m “there yet” (because I’m not) but I am closer than I’ve ever been  – AND I believe I’ve made a breakthrough. I’m on my way.

Here’s the take-away? I am (finally) learning to hear what I’m actually saying, and learning to say what I actually mean.

How do you talk to yourself and what do you hear yourself saying? Do you have a “sliding scale” of acceptable things you put in your mouth? Do you tell yourself, “Hey, I don’t eat this, so I should be able to have a little of that…?” I’d love to hear the conversations you have with yourself, so leave me a comment and let me know.

Here is a Little Life Lesson for Living a Happier Bariatric After Life™

I have always hated my legs; they just aren’t good looking.  Sadly, I was not one of those women whose legs stayed skinny and shapely while the rest of me got bigger. Okay, that’s not entirely true: I had an hourglass figure…but all the sand ran to the bottom.

Anyway, in this episode, I figured out that it’s not okay to decide that, just because *I* don’t like something, *no one* else can like it either. When you set up boundaries, and make rules about how someone can love you, the real loser is YOU.

When I was little, people told me that I should be an artist, an illustrator, or a cartoonist when I grew up. I heard this all the time (probably because I was ALWAYS DRAWING something) and besides, it wasn’t a far-fetched idea. Didn’t all of us imagine we would grow up to do something “fun” …that we’d make a living doing something we love? I grew up in the early 70′s when kids dreamt of becoming an astronaut, airline pilot, or even president. Boy, times have changed…

Anyway, I spent my formative years drawing, sketching and coloring on whatever paper I could find. During the school year, I’d draw pictures of couples (John + Anna, John + Donna, John + Somebody New…), and at the end of the school year, I’d “doodle” in people’s yearbooks.

I left my mark EVERYWHERE, and became well-known for my cartoons.

And then I started junior high, (which ran from 7th to 9th grade.) This was the first time art became more than just something I could do after lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was an actual “elective” that I could take, and I got to do it EVERY DAY! This was heaven for me, and I loved the idea of it all. Of course, we explored entirely new media — things like pen and ink, watercolors and clay. Unfortunately, I soon figured out that I had two problems:

1. I wasn’t very good at many of the new media, and
2. there was a girl named Julie P. who WAS.

Trust me, she was an incredibly gifted artist. Which only meant one thing: C-O-M-P-E-T-I-T-I-O-N.

Okay, so there was someone BETTER than I was at art.  Actually, she was SO much better, she was voted “Most Artistic” in the 9th grade popularity poll.

I came in second.

You know what they say, you don’t win the silver, you lose the gold. So, I did what any honest, self-discriminating person would do: I quit dreaming of becoming an artist. After all, everyone *else* was better, so why should I pursue a career at it?

Right about now, I can hear some of you saying, “What? Why did she quit art? Why would she do that? Why didn’t she learn from Julie P. (and any of the other artists who were better?) It’s true…that would have been the smart thing, I’ll give you that, but in those days, I had zero self-confidence and a fragile ego, so admitting that someone was BETTER at something carried a very high price tag. Unfortunately, that price tag turned out to be my entire creative self, because over the course of the next 8 years (until about the age of 20), I continued to run into people who were better.

I got turned down for VAPA (Visual & Performing Arts) program in high school, I got turned down for a scholarship to Art Center, and I got turned down for a promotion in the creative department at the ad agency where I worked. Never mind that I should have taken those rejections as opportunities to become better at my craft. Never mind that I could have asked talented and successful artists for help…Just never mind.

I took those rejections personally, and they became nails in my creative coffin.

Until…one day…I just…stopped drawing.

So, what was the lesson in that creative carnage? Well, it sort of came to me the other day, when I learned (for the umpteenth time) that my success as a post-op is viewed by some with scorn and jealousy. In other words, my success somehow translates into their failure. Are you noting the parallels here? The only real difference is, now, *I* am Julie P. and those people who don’t think they are “good enough” are ME! Unfortunately, this isn’t about crayons and paper — this is about life. This is about health, happiness and healing.

Of course, I can’t blame others for looking at me with derision – it’s a practiced art form for some of us; we compare ourselves to others, usually, unfavorably. I spent YEARS believing I didn’t measure up; I put myself on the losing end of the comparison.

WELL, not anymore. I no longer compare myself to others who are living a successful Bariatric After Life™ because I realize that we all have different gifts…talents…strengths…we are all different people who can bring a great deal of wisdom to the world, if we just BELIEVE IN OURSELVES.

Alright, I don’t expect to be voted “Most Fabulous” anytime soon (because, last time I checked, there were no Bariatric Yearbooks — LOL), but that’s okay. I know that I must share my talents with others and, wherever I come up short, must look to those who are MORE SUCCESSFUL to learn how THEY have succeeded!

So what if it took me forty years to figure it all out…I may be a SLOW learner, but I’m a GOOD learner, and this lesson has been well- learned: I didn’t ask Julie P. for tips on how to become a better artist, but that won’t stop me from asking others how to become a better ME.

Do you see yourself in this lesson? Have you judged yourself poorly against others who might have shed more weight after surgery, or been more physically active? Have you decided you are a failure because you don’t wear a certain size, haven’t run a 5K, or you struggle with bingeing?

If there’s one message I can give you, it’s this: LEARN FROM OTHERS.

Don’t quit because they succeed.
Succeed because they don’t quit!

Growing up, our family vacations were nothing less than legendary, mostly for good reasons, but sometimes, for “less-than-grand” reasons.

Like the time we took a rented motor home out to the middle of nowhere (Salton Sea, to be exact.) Now, if you are unfamiliar with Salton Sea, let me tell you that it is less of a “sea” and more of a stinky manmade puddle, surrounded by a swampy cesspool, smack dab in the California desert.

Anyway, this “wonderland” is only about a 3-hour drive from home, so I’m not entirely clear why, on this trip, we found ourselves in the dark on a desolate highway engulfed in a massive sandstorm. However it happened, there we were, and things were not looking good. The gale-force winds were so strong, they were literally blowing over trailers and motorhomes all around us (which totally and understandably freaked my mom out.) After what felt like an eternity hunkered down on the side of the road, my dad agreed that we would spend the night at a local motel.

Fortunately for us, it had a POOL!

We checked in around 11 o’clock at night (again, I don’t know why it was so late), and my brother and I begged and begged to go swimming THAT VERY NIGHT. My parents relented and we dashed down to the pool. Of course, we had to be super quiet, because it was after hours.

Now, just to give you an idea of the grandiosity of this pool, do you remember that scene from the movie “Vacation” (with Chevy Chase and Beverly D’Angelo?) Let me refresh your memory: The Griswolds show up at a campground and are met by Bill Murray’s brother, who rents them “deluxe” accommodations, right near the pool. Of course, the lodging turns out to be smelly, fly-infested tents and the pool turns out to be an above-ground number, filled with slimy green water and a few ducks thrown in for good measure. Another case of something not measuring up to the marketing brochure.

Okay, our pool wasn’t that bad, but it WAS full of water bugs (Ick). So, my dad gamely and heroically grabbed the net on the long pole, and began to sweep the pool clear of the big, black critters. Save one, that I clearly recall floating by on a piece of styrofoam. I remember thinking that he looked like he was sitting on a surfboard, waiting to hang 10 on a big wave. Kowabunga!

After what seemed like an eternity, the pool was bug-free and we were approved to dive in.

…Did I mention that I was only about 4 years old?
…Did I mention that I didn’t know how to swim?
…Did I mention I was standing at the deep end of the pool?

None of that mattered as I happily yelled, “Catch me, Daddy!” and jumped in.

Down, down, down I sank….8 feet under.

…Did I mention that my dad was way over in the SHALLOW END of the pool?

What you need to understand is, my dad was my HERO. He could do anything — including (apparently) catch me all the way from the shallow end of the pool. I was utterly and completely convinced of this fact…even though my confidence was a bit shaken as my lungs threatened to explode.

Well, after what felt like an eternity, my dad (thanks to his ape-like arms) reached me and was able to safely drag me to the edge of the pool. Amidst snotty, chlorine-filled tears and sobs, I managed to sputter, “WHERE WERE YOU?” As a parent, I NOW understand my dad’s terror at realizing the very real possibility that I would drown before he reached me, but as a four-year-old, all I could think of was the fact that I’d been ABANDONED. Of course, at that point, no amount of consolation would quell my despair and I was wrapped (soggy and deflated) into a big, fluffy beach towel and taken upstairs for the night. There would be no more swimming for me – not with the bugs OR the fish!!

As I look back on that incident, I can see the lesson contained within the trauma: I leapt before I looked. I just figured my dad would be there for me, so I didn’t need to plan ahead. Why should I? He’d always caught me before – absolutely every single time. What was so different this time, I wondered…?

If I’d only realized then what I know now, I’d have saved myself a great deal of grief. BUT…despite my “near-death experience,” for the next 40 years, I continued to behave as if my dad would catch me whenever I jumped.

But…he usually DID.

In school, when I needed help writing papers, he’d dictate them for me — just so I could understand how to do it for the next time.

• When I blew up the engine on my Toyota, he helped me get a new engine.
• When I blew up the engine on my VW Karmanghia, he helped me get another new engine,
• When I crashed my Toyota, he helped me buy another car.
• When I wanted a brand new car, I jumped at a shiny red Jeep. And when I realized it was not what I expected, my dad raced to the dealership to fight my battle — even though I should have done it for myself.
• When I had trouble making the rent, he lent me money.
• When I maxed out my credit cards, he was there to bail me out, even letting me move back home (rent-free).
• When I married my wonderful husband, he paid for an amazing wedding…even though he couldn’t afford it and probably ended up losing the house over it later.

He loved me so much, he didn’t want me to sink…or fail. What he didn’t realize (and most parents don’t), was that he was actually NOT saving me from the deep end of the pool by bailing me out every time…he was really setting me up to drown.

I know that sounds incredibly harsh, and I know that it was never his intention, but such are the unintended consequences of our actions as parents. Believe me, I’ve set my daughter up for drownings of her own, and fight my urge to save her every day! (Sometimes, I can’t help myself and pluck her out of the pool…)

The point is, sometimes, we have to do things for ourselves. No, I’m not saying that my dad shouldn’t have saved me from the deep-end of the pool that blustery night in Salton Sea, but, I am saying that he should have “taught me to swim” for the future.

[Figuratively, not literally, because, as you know, he tried to teach me to swim and even sent me to swimming lessons, which I flunked, because I am a "controlled drowner" -- not a swimmer, but I digress…]

ANWAY, where was I? Oh yeah: Then it happened. I reached a point in my life where my daddy couldn’t save me. I ate myself to the point of obesity and there was nothing anyone could do to keep me afloat. I had to struggle to the surface and find a way to tread water until someone could throw me a line. Thankfully, that life preserver came in the form of bariatric surgery, but I still had to kick my feet and aid my “rescuers” as they pulled me to safety. I had to do some work to save myself.

I didn’t realize it then, but that day in the pool, I learned a valuable lesson: I must LOOK before I LEAP. I must PLAN to succeed and not just expect someone to catch me. How does that look in my Bariatric After Life™? Well, I know that I can’t leave home without protein (like nuts, soy chips, a protein bar, a shake – something), and I must be prepared before I go to a restaurant (by looking up the menu online, or reviewing the menu before being seated.) I know that I must make time to exercise and not just “hope” it will happen. Finally, I must be aware of my choices and not let them get away from me by fooling myself into believing I’ll be able to “fix it later.”

My daddy was my hero – there’s no doubt about that — and he taught me a lot of very important things. In this case, he taught me one of the most valuable lessons of all…and he finally did it by NOT being there to catch me when I fell.

When I was about three years old, my grandfather gave my brother and me a handful of sunflower seeds to plant in the backyard. He thought it would be a good learning opportunity for us, especially after my horrific experience with the tomato plants that got eaten by those scary, fat, caterpillars that looked like bright green grubs with little red feet and horns. Not that I remember them too clearly, or anything…

But, back to the happy part: We chose to plant our seeds in a place along the brick wall, just beyond the patio behind the house. As I recall, it wasn’t a very big area, but apparently, big enough to sprout some massive sunflowers. Now, in my mind, it only took a couple of days for them to grow, but I’m sure it took longer…like, at least a week. Anyway, they quickly overtook all 3 feet of me and grew to the height equivalent to the Coastal California Redwoods. Yes, I am certain of this fact. They were TALL. I adored those massive brown flower faces that craned to soak up the sun each day. They made me very happy and I felt quite accomplished at having grown something so beautiful. It had been my job to water them and weed them and till the soil with the little garden spade, and I took my tasks quite seriously.

But then…one day…while I was watering…I looked up and noticed something tragic. My happy sunflowers were now hanging their heads in shame. They were drooping like shower heads…and something strange had appeared in their faces. I was devastated because I knew that they were dying, so I immediately ran and got my big brother.

To my surprise he was not in the least bit shocked. On the contrary, he seemed…downright giddy as he grabbed the pair of red-handled lawn clippers and began to HACK MY SUNFLOWERS DOWN!

I was shattered and ran into the house crying.

Naturally, my mother responded by yelling at my brother (because he had obviously done something to hurt me. Again.)…until she saw exactly what I was crying about. Much to my dismay, she gently explained to me that this was the normal life cycle for sunflowers! According to her, sunflowers were just a fancy way to get sunflower SEEDS! I had to think about that for a long while.

So, (a full) two minutes later, I joined my brother at the dining room table to carefully pluck the seeds from the faces of my beloved (now dead) flowers. Once we had collected a very large pile, we spread them out on a foiled cookie sheet, salted them, and let them bake for awhile.

What emerged that day was one of the tastiest treats I’d ever eaten and I quickly forgot about my “old flower friends.”

Until today, when I remembered my backyard giants and how I could apply that lesson to my Bariatric After Life.™ (You knew it was coming.)

I believe that sometimes we have to die a little in order to come back as something better. For example, as I’ve learned in therapy, I had to give up long-held beliefs when I learned they weren’t true. Or, I had to let go of old friends in order to make new ones.

I also had to change my relationships. I had to change the way I interacted with my daughter and my mother and my grandmother.

With my daughter, it was challenging, because her “fat mom” had been replaced by a “skinny mom” and she was not happy about it. She felt threatened and cheated, which made for some trying times. They were particularly formative years – spanning from age 17 to age 20 – and in that (short) time, I had to learn to relate to her as a young woman, instead of a child. I had to embrace the fact that she is (wildly) independent, and must be free to make her own mistakes. I’ve had to realize that I’ve done my job of modeling “the good stuff” and it is now up to her to decide what she will use and what she will leave; which seeds she will plant, and which she will set aside.

With my mom, I learned to have compassion for things I could never know or understand. Two and a half years ago, she lost my dad after 47 years of marriage. I would have thought she’d be permanently wilted, but she proved herself to be made of stronger stuff than I ever imagined possible. She HAD BEEN a drooping sunflower, but NOW, she joyfully shares her seeds of hope and love with everyone who lives at her senior living complex. One of those “seeds” happens to be her little dog, Guido..who also spreads a little SOMETHING around the place…but, I digress…

With my grandma, I had to accept the fact that she could no longer crochet a doily or play penny bingo on Sunday afternoons, because senility had robbed her of her faculties. That was a hard transition to make, but 5 years ago, we were certain she was on death’s doorstep and called the priest to give her the final sacraments. We all prayed and said our goodbyes, and then we told her she could go in peace and we would understand. But something strange happened…she DID let go, but not to death. She let go of her FEARS and moved into a wonderful place where angels come to her everyday on earth. I believe that her sunflower died, but she continues to plant little seeds with the people at the home where she lives. She is a miracle at 99 — no doubt about it.

So you see, we all die a little, but we are reborn in the form of seeds that we lovingly share with others. Which is, (by the way), why I’m here. I now know that I am not meant to bloom as a single flower in a garden; I am here to plant seeds of personal growth in other people’s hearts.

The funny thing is, I am a terrible gardener, but fortunately, the people I help do their own growing and I just have to remind them to get plenty of water and nutrients!

I am my own worst enemy. Despite my best efforts, sometimes, I just can’t get out of my own way. Okay, it IS true that I am less of a personal roadblock than I was before I began my weight loss journey, but there are still times when I threaten to derail myself, all because I can’t figure out where to go.

Yesterday was one of those days. Catastrophe had decided to pig-pile on my shoulders, causing me to hunker down and just…survive. It was not a pretty picture and I felt quite helpless and frustrated. There I was, smack-dab in the way of progress…all because I couldn’t find the way out and didn’t know where to turn.

Well, this morning, I awoke in a rather philosophical mood. No, nothing has changed from my personal circumstances of yesterday, but I realized something very profound: Just like when I’m stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the freeway, or hitting every red light in town, I have come to believe that I am right where I am supposed to be. Though I may not know the reason, I am assured that I am meant to be RIGHT HERE.

“Wherever You Go, There You Are.”

Okay, if I am supposed to be where i am, and I am mired in the muck of life’s calamities, what does that have to do with getting out of my own way?

Here we go:

At the depths of my despair yesterday, someone in great need reached out to me for help. She was physically and emotionally struggling after recently undergoing weight loss surgery and she felt abandoned and discouraged. Given her circumstances, I’d have felt the same way. She couldn’t eat anything, was sick all the time, wasn’t losing weight, and had no support or direction from anyone. She was basically adrift in the Bariatric After Life™ with no one to help her navigate the rough waters. So, I made a few nutritional suggestions which, to my surprise and delight, she immediately implemented. Guess what? By the end of the day, SHE FELT BETTER. She had HOPE and yes, a few of the things actually tasted GOOD to her for the first time in five weeks!

I didn’t realize it yesterday, but I was right where i was supposed to be – FOR HER — not for me. By reaching outside of my own needs (getting out of my own way), and lending a helping hand to someone else, I felt better about my own circumstances — even though they haven’t changed.

I guess the moral of the story is this: When we are in our deepest, darkest moments, we can bring light into our own lives by offering hope and help to someone else.

Thus, by removing myself from my own morass of hopelessness, I helped someone else move beyond theirs.

Help someone today, especially if you’re in your own way. There’s probably a very good reason you are, where you are.