Why watermelon is the perfect diet food

First, let me say that I've spent more time fretting, worrying, obsessing, and despairing over my weight than I have anything else in life.  That made me fertile ground for dieting and all its attendant woes.

My mother, bless her heart, taught me well. We all know that she never hit 100 pounds until she was pregnant with me.  We all know that her ideal weight, after having 4 kids in 5 years, was 102.  That was the magic number and as surely as the scales read 103, out came the exercise record ---- yes, a 33rpm ---- and we kids circled up in the front room with her, bending and stretching and touching our toes.  We never had weird dietary food, but it was common knowledge that a medium apple was 85 calories.  I'm not sure she ever ate anything for which she couldn't calculate  the caloric value.


But those were also the days of playing outside, walking instead of riding uptown, and severely restricted television time --- one hour a day (at most) and Saturday morning cartoons.  It wasn't until I hit the 100 mark that I started to worry.  Somehow, that three digit number flipped a switch in my brain.  From that time forward, about age 13, the fretting began.


It didn't help to have boyfriends who kept track of my weight, or a father who made sly comments.  It also didn't help that I was naturally top-heavy, which set up its own shock waves in the body-image department. Everything hit at once, and addictive self-destruction became the name of the game.


I went on my first diet at 108 pounds.  Yes.  1-0-8.  I thought I was horribly fat.  That first diet, which consisted of severe calorie restriction, did the trick so I could get back down to the family standard, 102.  I had adopted that shibboleth as my own, though it proved to be elusive as time wore on. This diet was followed over the years by all the major fads and latest scientifically proven plans.  One after another the diet worked and I failed.  That was my assessment, anyway.


Now?  My wii fit tells me, with no apologies, that I'm obese and I need to weigh 109 pounds.  Seems those high school boyfriends were right.  Will that ever happen?  Not in this lifetime.  Closer would be nice, but the torturous attempt to reach that goal would probably do me in.


Which brings me to the watermelon.  I was digging into a nice fat chunk for breakfast ---- after being reminded of my current state by the wii ----- when I realized that watermelon is perfect for me.  I'm a sweets addict.  It's sweet, like dessert.  It's nearly all water, so it makes me feel full afterwards.  It's brightly colored, red and green and black, so it appeals to my aesthetic sense.  And I have to pay attention to it while I eat.  It's important not to get the seedless kind, which leaves the way open for reading a book or watching the Daily Show while eating.  All the many "healthy eating" books, websites, articles, etc. say to pay attention and not eat unconsciously. If you eat a seeded watermelon without regard for the seeds, you're going to swallow them and, as my great-aunt warned me when I was little, a watermelon will grow in your stomach!


I'm not dieting, just so you know.  I no longer calculate calories like my mother did right up until she was overtaken by Alzheimers Disease.  She's still a little thing, no bigger than a wisp, but she eats what she wants these days, when she remembers to eat at all. Sunday she had three desserts at the end of brunch. Yesterday, she took 6 slices of watermelon, to the amusement of the entire serving staff at the Heritage, who kidded her good-naturedly as she walked by with her towering red and green stack.


I don't want to wait till I lose my mind to make this lifelong internal struggle subside.  Right now,when I have so many days of calm, redemptive, focused action, I'm simply trying to remember to "expand to include" even the things I resist about myself.  Nothing has ever changed from a stance of non-acceptance.  I've got nearly 50 years of resistance behind me and it hasn't worked yet.  Perhaps I can practice acceptance, and being here now.


Make mine serenity, with a slice of watermelon on the side.














 

The other old broad

I titled this blog Two Old Broads and No Estrogen but so far it's all about ME, ME, ME.  So here's more about the other one.


Jill is the one I'm dancing with in the picture, my partner of 9 years, my bride of four.  It was May 26, 2007 that we gathered friends and family together and had a big ol' outdoor wedding here in Raleigh.  It was truly a happy day, even though it was so hot the frosting on the cupcakes was melting and the power blew out for the music, so we had to hum through our first dance.

Then last summer, July 24, 2010, we went to Halifax to be legally married, another joyful day.


I had said, after being married twice before, fully and officially heterosexually married to certified born-boys, that I was never going to do that again.  It took me till I was 47 to finally and permanently slam the door of my closet.  I had to make up some lost time!


But then, after only a couple of years. . . here came someone I would never have paired myself with, someone so far the opposite of me that we could barely wave across the distance.  There were hidden explosives at every turn.  We could scarcely carry on a conversation without one or the other of us thinking "She's NUTS!"


So what in the world kept us together?  Integrity, I think.  Honesty --- at least the best way we could manage it.  Willingness.  Listening.  Suspension of disbelief.


She taught me to say "I love you."


I taught her to trust.


We both had to give up the pictures we carried in our minds of who we were and who we would be with.  It turned out that the outsides ---- circumstances, beliefs, appearances, ---- were far less important than fundamental values.  


She has opened doors for me that I was too scared to open myself.  I've never let go of the HER of her, even when she's at her lowest ebb. She found out she's much more capable of book-learning than she thought she was.  I found out I can be committed and faithful in a loving relationship.


Would we have learned these things if we hadn't met? I don't know. The odds of us meeting, dating, working it through, and marrying were so small in the first place.  But now it seems inevitable.

Concrete example:


When we met, she didn't know how to play games. (I think she's ok with me saying this.)  My family is a game playing group of people, but we don't take them seriously.  If a game doesn't make everybody laugh and have fun, then it's not worth playing.  She had never played games that way before, and when she would get ganged up on or disadvantaged, she didn't know it wasn't personal, that she was supposed to know that nobody was being mean, that she was expected to laugh.  After one particularly difficult game night, we talked it over on the way home and I tried to explain it.  She listened and a few days later, we started practicing game playing at home.  By the next time the family got together, she understood and she started having fun, laughing, delighting in "getting" someone or being "gotten" without it being mean-spirited.  Now, she's a game-playin' fool, just like the rest of us, hootin' and hollerin' and having a great time.


I often give games for wedding presents.  I feel that if you can't play games together and have fun doing it, you'll never get through the hard parts of marriage. 



Not a day goes by, for these two old broads, that we don't laugh together.

Shall I write a book today?

Yesterday I published my second novel on Kindle.  I've been writing novels for fun for many, many years, but never thought anyone else would read them.  Publishing a novel is an event, a landmark, that I always held as a far-off, probably unattainable dream.  Now I know, from my own experience, that it's another part of my process, my journey through life.  Exciting, yes.  But not an end-goal.  Not a final break.  Today, there's another book to finish.

Which makes me think: I keep expecting events and getting processes.  You would think by now I would know.

Take this whole retirement thing.  Even though I kind of slid in the back door, taking 2 months of medical leave that just morphed into retirement, I still thought it would be an event, a clear demarcation, a line in the sand.  Instead, it's just like everything else, mushy and hard to define.

Yes, April 1 was the official date.  As far as paperwork is concerned, there's the event.  But as I experience this new phase of life, there are many more markers on the side of the path than large, instructional signs.  And why should I have expected it to be any different?

When I was in my twenties, I visited an elderly relative, Aunt Jennie, who had long since moved to California from Iowa.  I had never met her; she was my great-grandmother's sister.  I was named after Aunt Jennie, my middle name being Jeanette.  I remember very vividly that day, after showing us her orange tree in the yard, and playing some music for us, she perched on the edge of a wingback chair and said "I'm 85 years old!" then shook her head and added wonderingly, "How did that happen?" 

Process.  Life from the inside feels seamless and actually timeless.  I didn't understand yet in my twenties and thirties.  I thought as the body ages, everything else does, too.  But now I'm 60, not old, not young, and I'm still me on the inside.  I look back and remember incidents or events, but the experience of life is like a long ribbon that continues to unroll.

So here I am at a beginning and this beginning is like other beginnings ---- exciting, thought-provoking, mysterious, a little scary.  I wake up every morning and I don't go to work.  I have more choice about how I spend my time than I ever have before.  For all my adult life, I've hoarded time, guarded it and doled it out with the feeling that it was the most precious, scarce commodity I had.  And maybe it was.

Now I have time to write, to think, to read, to dream.  Chores and errands are not as onerous because I still have time for the things I love.  I treasure my time alone and I delight in my time with Jill.  I even have time to play with the dogs.

I used to dread getting older.  All I could see was the encroaching darkness, the end in sight.  But now that I'm arriving, I find I have more than I ever imagined.  I've heard more birds, taken more walks, read more books, and lost myself in creativity more than I allowed myself in the past.  


And I still write novels for fun.

 

Travel, they say, is broadening

There is something to be said for getting out of my normal environment.  Without the familiar touchstones, the mind is looser, rubbery, curious.  Predictability takes a holiday; sometimes I get lost.


I've been in Denver on a combined vacation and errand of mercy.  It is always a treat to see my DD (darling daughter), no matter the circumstances.  Right now, it seemed like a good time to don my mommy hat and see for myself how she was doing while suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  She's fine.  Of course.


Since she's gainfully employed, I had a lot of time on my hands.  I'm simultaneously attracted and repelled by urban living, and she's in the middle of the city.  I love being able to walk to coffee shops, restaurants, parks, etc.  I walked every day. Even though I live in the city of Raleigh, it feels more like the burbs.  It's a newish subdivision, not very walkable, no place to walk to. 


I love the old neighborhoods in Denver, with interesting architectural fillips to look up in The Field Guide to American Houses every time I returned to the apartment.  We pored over the book together, then found examples on the streets as we drove or walked around.  It's fun to share a love of history and place with her.


That was the broadening part; I come away from this vacation with new ideas and information.  But there's a subtext to this trip, as well.  I needed to confirm that my job is done, which is a bittersweet realization.  I'll always be the mother of my children.  I knew them from before they were born.  I stuck to my guns and put my fingers in my ears when well-meaning but woefully uninformed people tried to tell me all the things I was doing wrong while I raised them.  


She's the younger, and though it's been 11 years since she launched, the college and post-college years are a gradual flowering.  I found that this is the first time I KNOW that she is a grown up woman, competent and well able to handle whatever life brings to her.  Nobody gets a free pass in life.  We all have bumps and curve balls and sometimes the obstacles feel overwhelming.  That's why we seek out friends, partners, mentors, and yes, parents sometimes, to help us get through the tough times.


It is most satisfying to know that even though my kids will have to face life's slings and arrows, they have what it takes to do so.  When they're little, you want to protect them and really, that's a parent's job.  But the counterbalance to that is encouraging them to walk through adversity as effectively as possible, relying on inner and outer resources.


So my job here is done.  Now for the fun!  I adore my grown-up kids.  If I were not related to them, I would wish I was.  They're smart, funny, compassionate, thoughtful, and committed to life.  Whatever hand I played in that, I'm thankful for the chance I had to do it.


They've both chosen to live in beautiful places that are great to visit.  And then .... home again to my own life, my own wife, and the present moment we live in now.  Gratitude.

For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost

I'm not sure I trust myself to speak today.  Waking up to the news that a military strike killed the United States' Most Wanted is disturbing.  I'll tell you why.

I'm a novelist.  We writers are a strange breed, especially those of us who construct whole lives and worlds in the imagination.  The very same perspective that makes it possible to follow a story across time and generations, also makes it difficult to watch "real life" unfold and not see it as the arc of a storyline.

Nothing happens in isolation.  As an author, if I drop an event into a story that is in no way related to the overall narrative --- just because I heard about or imagined something that tickled me ---- it stands out and cries to be removed.  I've had to go back and take out some very entertaining scenes or characters for just that reason. 

Everything is connected to everything else.  Poets and philosophers and storytellers and religious teachers all say the same thing, using different metaphors.  A stone dropped in the water, a butterfly in Indonesia flapping its wings, the birth of a baby, a nail lost from the horse's shoe ---- all have been used to bring home the point that the tiniest action has unpredictable effects.

So Osama bin Laden, the 17th baby born to a well-to-do family in 1957, was killed in an operation that will no doubt be written about, filmed, talked of and doubted for years.  (Or he wasn't killed, if you prefer.)  At one time, he was a newborn baby, not unlike every person reading these words, not unlike the babies all over the globe being born this instant.  His life began to unfold at that moment.  One thing happened, then another and another.  Just as we all do, he processed the world and its inhabitants based on his own interpretation of the things he felt and saw and heard and learned.  Was it pre-ordained?  There are those who believe it, I'm sure.  I don't happen to think that way.

I'm certain that this man, whoever he was in his heart of hearts, was responsible for terrible pain and grief in the world and in individual people's lives.  There is no mitigating such an awful legacy.  He will be remembered, not for whatever acts of kindness he may have bestowed on the people close to him, but for the monstrous acts of violence he set in motion.  He is not the first, nor even the worst, if you toll these things in number of casualties.  But he has left his mark upon the world.

What captures and distresses me is what comes next.  Some people, many people, are celebrating his death.  Others don't believe it.  The fact that he is gone will have some effect on the organization he leaves behind.  Where does this lead?  There will be geo-political ramifications that, like the stone in the pond, will radiate out from this event in all directions.  There will be political fallout in the US.  There will be private, personal changes wrought by the strike.  The families who have lost precious sons, daughters, mothers, fathers through military service or in the 9/11 attack will add another layer to their existing story of life and death.  Civilians in the war-torn countries involved, whose lives have been disrupted or destroyed over the past decade will also react, each in an individual way.

Sometimes when I read fiction, I can't stand not knowing what is going to happen and I either stop reading or jump ahead.  I have a low tolerance for suspense.  Sometimes in life I feel the same way.  There are too many variables crashing into each other right now.  It makes me jumpy and anxious and ready to have the resolution.  But I know, because I write the stuff, that resolution is short-lived and more will continue to unfold.  With a book I can write the words THE END and call the story to a halt.  In real life it just keeps coming.