Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Read The Internet

It starts, innocently enough, with a link on facebook. Then I read one article which links to another which links to another which gets me to this.

And then I get all aggro again.

"Real Bodies Unite is appealing to all those women fed up of being bombarded with unrealistic imagery in the fashion and beauty industry, by launching a global campaign to raise at least 10,000 signatures for the use of body diversity instead."

Flashback: the year is 1991. A certain young feminist author with a hot, new, provocative book comes to talk to our eighth grade class (yes, I just outed my age). She talks to just the girls in the class about how Vogue and, I don't know, Beverly Hills 90210 are forcing us to hate ourselves and how we look and how those are the reasons we have poor body image. A certain student in the class raises her hand and politely (ok, probably not that politely) asks the feminist author if she is smoking crack. How on earth can a magazine make us do or feel anything we don't want? Vogue doesn't make this young lady feel bad about weighing 150+ pounds at 14 - she feels bad about her weight because she looks bad. Objectively. Whether or not Anna Wintour exists. It is possible that said young student is forcibly escorted out of the room and counseled by a teacher to maybe stop with the talking because the feminist author's message will be important to some of the student's classmates and she shouldn't ruin it for everyone.

20 years later and this theory has become widely accepted and a cottage industry.

It is neither the anorexic model, nor the agency that employs her, nor the magazine that prints her, nor the designer who hires her, who is at fault in the tiresome lady-body-image debate. We, the ladies. We're the problem.

Yup, I said it. Wanna be taken seriously, ladies? Accept responsibility for your own complicity in this. Reading the Real Bodies Unite mission statement (which I sincerely hope was written by a teenager, otherwise I cannot excuse the poor grasp of the English language) would have you imagining that the media (capital-M, lowercase-M, whichever) puts thoughts into your head. Thoughts you can't un-put there. Like Son of Sam and his dog. She/we are powerless when the media speaks. The thoughts are unthinkable. Good thing it's only telling us to hurt ourselves emotionally and psychologically, otherwise the courts would be jam-packed with defendants saying "Glamour made me do it."

Even as the crusaders admit that they know the representations of women in the media are "not real," they seem powerless to separate fantasy from reality. Herein lies another gripe: designers don't design for "real women." (For real we should assume heavyish.) Sadly, there's a Freakonomics problem here: heavy women aren't wealthy. Only wealthy women buy designer clothing. Ergo, designers have slender women modelling their clothing. Take a look at the society pages and you'll notice that those women (possibly real, even) are similarly sized and shaped to the women in the fashion magazines. If you are 300 pounds, statistics suggest you do not have $7,000 for a dress. Why would the person selling a $7,000 dress care if you identify with his model if you're not the intended audience any way? The $7,000 dress is a fantasy just as the model is. Why isn't there a movement whose mission is to compel couture houses to make dresses that cost $70? After all, by the same logic, it's unfair to the rest of us that they don't. That we expect women to understand that ownership of a $7,000 dress is a fantasy, but ownership of the body modelling it shouldn't be, is a leap I am unwilling to make.

Women in fashion magazines, movies, television, are professionally beautiful. Being beautiful in an unattainable way is their job. They work every day to be that beautiful. Were that my job, I would lift more weights, clean my face on a regular basis, not consider exfoliation to be "a hassle," and never eat a carb. But since I don't get paid to be attractive, it's bread and sleeping in eyeliner for me. If you, personally, don't like their occasionally boyish figures or outsized busts, it shouldn't matter to you that you don't look like that. There is a serious disconnect between complaining about how unattractively thin models are and then complaining that the selfsame things you find unattractive about them, being unattainable for you, make you feel unattractive yourself.

Does anyone really, truly, honestly think that if there were women of all shapes and sizes in the media, that we women wouldn't find something else to be self-hateful about? Is it really that simplistic? Get a bunch of regular sized and lumpy chicks on the pages of InStyle and we'll all live in Utopian body satisfaction world? To quote the girl from 1991: are you smoking crack?

Want a great example? This photo. Oh, look, girls who also have rolls in their stomachs when they lean over. Bravo! But do you notice what these "real" women don't have? Here's a cursory list:

Cellulite
Scars from ingrown leg hairs
Any body hair whatsoever or the razor burn/waxing bumps to prove they ever had any
Thin hair
Split ends
Visible stretch marks
Wrinkles
Grey hair
Weird moles
Uneven skin tone
And so on, etc. etc.

Also these women may be non-thin, but none is fat. Also none is over 30. If you want to pay money to look at a non-thin-but-not-fat, over thirty woman with thin hair, stretch marks, scars on her knees from summer camp, broken blood vessels on her nose, and the remnants of a manicure from October, I'll start telling you where to send the checks. The women in that picture are no more representative of the rest of us than Kate Moss. They're merely 40 pounds heavier than Kate Moss. Everything else remains the same (it should be noted that I have no idea if there are Supermodels anymore, and Kate Moss is the last one I remember who was very skinny - I realize Kate Moss is now well over 30).

So putting beautiful women 40 pounds heavier than Kate Moss, but whose skin, hair, etc. is equally airbrushed, who have spent the same number of hours in the stylist's chair prior to being photographed, in magazines, as opposed to only showing women as thin as Kate Moss will do absolutely nothing to improve women's self-image issues. And anyone who says otherwise is an imbecile.

A dangerous imbecile who is doing exactly the same thing to women as he/she claims the media is: reducing an entire gender to a group of mouthbreathers incapable of making decisions -good and bad- for itself. Oh, don't blame that woman for her poor self-image; the magazine made her do it. She couldn't possibly be expected to stand up for herself on her own. We need to change the magazines so that the poor thing can get out of bed in the morning without wanting to take a razor to her fat, hairy wrists.

These purported feminists are doing more to halt women's progress than any fashion magazine could ever claim to do. I don't want my raison d'etre as a woman to be perpetual victimhood, nor am I comfortable with the notion that until some third-party changes its ways, I will be unable to change my own.

There is a self-image problem that exists for women, but the hard truth is that in many cases it is created by women. We are the consumers and the judges of other consumers. Beauty as a status symbol is a tenet upheld by us all and no amount of media manipulation alone will change that. Belief that we are all equally beautiful negates the very idea of beauty. Admitting that beauty is both subjective and rare doesn't hurt the feminist cause. Attempting to deny subjective beauty makes us both naive and fatuous. The actual challenge is creating a hierarchy where beauty is not the only barometer of success for women. Ignoring beauty as a factor in how we evaluate others does nothing to broaden the scope of our evaluations; it reinforces a narrow view of worth in women. If we, as women, are only evaluating ourselves and others by their beauty, we're the problem. And we need to change. Otherwise, the magazines could print blank page upon blank page, and we'd still be no better off.

Life After Fat

The time has come to admit that I am no longer, in any way, shape or form, fat. I can no longer make self-deprecating comments about my fat. It is now unseemly as opposed to just undignified. I must now humbly join the ranks of the not-fat who still have body issues. As in, I know I am not fat, but that doesn't mean that there isn't room to improve the quality of my midsection.

I'm being flippant, natch, but this is actually a rather difficult transition. I have been legitimately and certainly medically fat my entire adolescent/adult life. It was a fallback defense and a daily reality. The number of times I used fat as an excuse for something entirely non-fat related? Too many times to comfortably admit. It turns out that my shortcomings will now have to be rationalized via other means.

And it's really not easy to get my head out of its fatspace. One great example: buffets. I used to worry that, in an environment where there was easy food access, people would notice when I decided to help myself: too early and they would judge the fat girl who couldn't keep her hands off the food; too late and I was tacitly admitting my fat and its control over me. Also clothing choices, as in, why is that fat girl wearing that form fitting outfit. Does she not know she is fat and should, therefore, be hiding that?

No one has much sympathy for the non-fat body dysmorphia. Glamour magazine no longer considers my body a protected class and all those cover articles promising the best jeans/dress/outfit for your body type, don't have my body type. And while I agonize over the perfect 12" measurement differential (possibly achievable) and the sad state of affairs that is my skin, I don't get to be all that vocal about it because after all, I'm not fat. I really shouldn't have anything to complain about - certainly not the fact that a pair of really tiny jeans I got 10 pounds ago are now loose.

Now I get the "you shouldn't lose any more weight" comments. Which, don't get me wrong, I understand come from a place of support, but don't do much for the lurking suspicion that there actually are some more pounds that wouldn't be missed should they suddenly go missing.

While on vacation, I ate foie gras twice without guilt. Also while on vacation we took some pictures. In all of them I can point out to you what still needs improvement, but as a farewell to the fat that was, I will share two with you.

You see when we went to Corsica in 2005 we took a lot of pictures as well. Including this one:


And while we didn't get the angle quite right, we went in search of the exact same location while on this trip to take the same photo:


Is the first picture rather embarrassing now? Absolutely! Have I delighted in looking at these two side by side ever since we got home? Yup!

So this will be among the last posts I write about my weight. I'll be losing a little more and toning what remains, but I can no longer pretend that this is a real issue that deserves attention. Please bear with me, in person and online, as I make the mental transition from fat to normal - if you've never been both, you might not understand that the brain takes some time to catch up with the body, but I assure you this is neither dissembling nor a pathetic compliment-fishing expedition. And if you hear me refer to my "fat" in the present tense, give me a couple of months before you yell at me. New body and I are still somewhat strangers to each other.

Where There's A Will, There's No Effin' Way

In fairness, The Gap is liberal with its sizing.

Yesterday, a dress I had been lusting after went on sale and the store at the White Plains mall had one left in stock. In the size I wanted. Clearly the universe wanted me to have this dress. Now malls perplex and frighten me and I try to keep our interactions to a minimum, but since malls force you to pass by 1000 stores prior to arriving at the one you were searching out, I found myself in the Gap. Which was good because the Gap jeans I was wearing were officially getting too big.

I grabbed one size down from what I was wearing in every style and hustled into the dressing room. But there was a problem. The one size down from the style I was currently sporting went on without a hitch. You might think this is good, until you remember that jeans now have a bit of lycra in them and if it fits in the store, it will be hopelessly and oft-times irretrievably stretched after a single wearing (I know from experience that chucking one's too big jeans in a very hot dryer only stays the inevitable - that is throwing the jeans out - for a moment or two). With a mixture of disbelief and euphoria, I got the next size down. A size really only reserved for Kate-sized people and their ilk (as an aside, devoted partner and I have started referring to our combined weight loss as "we've lost a Kate"). But even the Gap salesperson agreed that these were the pants I wanted to buy. Because they were a little tight in the dressing room meaning they'd be good once a day's wearing had been accomplished.

I was a little giddy as I checked out, but also sanguine: after all if the Gap is saying that a size 4 is a 27" waist, then it makes sense that my 28" waist would snugly fit. It's just that I don't believe the real world has the same sizing.

So across the mall to the store where my dress was being held. Part of me just wanted to buy it and flee the mall (harder than it seems, actually, as the access to the parking garage is limited to only certain floors - it took me about 10 minutes to get back to my car), but I decided to try on the dress before buying it - especially as the last time I had tried this dress on, it was a size larger and I was only guesstimating that I would need the smaller size.

And then it happened. And dear readers, I can only imagine how bored you are by now. Please forgive me. It's just that I'm continually amazed by my body's changes. It really isn't bragging, and I hope it doesn't sound like it, it's disbelief. Because even when I dreamed of what smaller me would look like, she looked bigger than I am today.

So I had a little cry in the dressing room. Because the girl in the mirror wasn't fat. Not even a little bit. The girl in the mirror was normal. The girl in the mirror could choose to stop dieting right now and it would be fine. The girl in the mirror is losing another 8-10 pounds out of vanity, not necessity. It is, without reservation, BANANAS!

Before and Almost After

I was going to wait and do this when the end arrived, but I was just looking through some pictures and needed to share. Please, however, do not construe this as a plea for accolades. The fact is: I should never have permitted myself to look like the "before" picture, so no longer looking like it isn't so much a triumph as a "d'uh, fatty."

But here is the before. Taken in 2008. Please note the food aggression in my eyes as I look at the cake (I think the more distasteful the photo the better able I am to convey the complete lack of okayness that is before):



MMMMMM yumyum cake. Yelena want cake. Yelena kill anyone who interferes with her and cake. Yelena eat cake. Omnomnomnomnomnomnom.

This photo was taken this week. Please note how there is no food in the picture. Also my head isn't in the picture, but I assure you it is I. See Mr. Sparkles?



As I dream of how good steak frites with some maitre de buerre would taste, plus about a half dozen eclairs, I look at these pictures. These pictures will get me through the next several months.

I hope you are amused.

Biting the Cheap European Bullet

Midway through week 3 of rifling through the goodwill bags looking for something I could get away with wearing, I caved and went to H&M. I simply had to admit that I had run out of clothing and that, despite the Saturday Night Live sketched of my youth advising me that most fit problems could be solved with "cinching," I had few alternatives to actually replenishing my wardrobe.

However, since I had been burned before and now have an unfortunate number of unsalvageable skirts in sizes I won't be again, I decided to do the honorable thing and go to the cheapest store in the mall to buy two things: one black skirt, one tan skirt. I figured between those and my one pair of jeans, I could be ok until June.

Oh dear, I forgot how unpleasant it is to shop at H&M. If attention deficit has a mascot, it would be this clothing store. I have a lot to say about "kids today," but if the layout of this store is any indication of how their brains work, please excuse me because I am way behind on my Mandarin lessons. There is no rhyme or reason to the store and no salespeople to answer questions. A reluctant shopper like me has to navigate by color.

And boy is this clothing cheap. I have shopped at H&M over the years for disposable clothing (and I was extremely sad to notice last summer that my favorite piece, a simple khaki skirt that had seen me through many an island vacation, was literally threadbare), but the quality is really appalling. Nevermind, I was there to buy temporary clothing. Something to get me from my current shape to my final shape without looking like I was wearing sacks.

And luckily, there were skirts. Mostly plain skirts. Tailored in such a way that not a centimeter of fabric was wasted. I gathered up as many as I could find in as many sizes as I could possibly be, and tried them on. For much of my life, I bought the smaller size as an aspiration and ended up squeezing myself into horribly undersized garments. Of late, I have attempted to correct these years of mistake-making and buy the size that actually fits. I considered this admirable until it dawned on me that I was, actually, losing weight and the clothing of right now only remained so about a month and a half. So I bought two skirts that barely fit right now, but that will fit perfectly in 5 pounds and won't stop fitting for another 15 or so - and that's about how much I have left to lose.

I hope when next I must wardrobe augment, I'm in the financial position to skip H&M, but for the moment, I am inordinately pleased that for $50 I can avoid looking slovenly and aesthetically lazy.

Normal

Ooooh, I've been waiting to do this post for a while. Say what you will about statistics and their motivations, today I'm on the side of arbitrary, unmitigated figures.

I'm normal.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking and, frankly, that's uncharitable of you. But for the first time in my life since attaining adolescence I have a BMI (body mass index) that falls within the range of normal weights.

Translation: the government thinks I'm no longer fat. In fact, it thinks I'm no longer even overweight. I'd like to think that, overnight, this has eliminated all my chances of ever getting heart disease, but I'm no dummy, just a little high on the euphoria of it all.

All the months of privation, of chickenchickenchicken, of sweaty dreams of onion bagels seem to have done the trick. Oh, believe you me, there's more success to be had (when you've been doing this as long as I have, the idea of stopping before the end is anathema), but the successes from this point on will be in the normal range (and that's a 40 pound range, though let's not even joke about the absurdity of my hitting anywhere near the bottom of that range). Normal. Normal normal normal. Gee, I like the sound of that, and you have to believe that comes as a surprise to me, who has often prided herself on abnormality.

This trip has been the closest I think I'll get to traveling back in time. Every pound lost takes me back to the point when last I weighed what I weigh now. Want to know what year we're currently in? 1991. That's right, we're wearing flannel shirts chez moi and I think we also have a perm (sorry, Jamie). We're not even in high school. 2 more pounds and we're in 1990, and after that it's the great unknown (for the math geeks out there, the reason I wasn't "normal" then is that I was a little shorter). In 2 more pounds we're at a place never before, a weight that seems ridiculous to make past comparisons with because I was a child.

I know this is all far less interesting to you than it is to me, but thank you for letting me brag a little. It's actually less bragging and more shock. For while there's still tummy that needs toning and a waist that needs whittling, the strange person in the mirror doesn't look out of control. She doesn't look like someone who thinks a loaf of bread is a meal (though, god help me, I could mow a loaf of bread like nobody's business right now). This is unfamiliar territory and the view ain't half bad.

F U brisket cheese fries!

My Pants Don't Fit

I've been hiding this from you because gloating is unbecoming. But yes, my pants don't fit in the good way. As I am solidly at my senior year of high school fighting weight, I find myself tugging up my waistbands more and more. Today, for example, I have a serious case of saggy baggy elephant butt, and you know what? I'm sort of ok with it.

I'll tell you the secret, because I know you're dying to hear the magic weight loss formula that has permitted devoted partner and me to jointly lose over 60 pounds this year, but I warn you, it's complicated. A serious regimen that requires round-the-clock attention and management. The kind of thing that takes dedication and organization and whose publication will probably net me millions.

The secret to weight loss is

(drum roll)

(more drums)

(yet more drums)

not eating.

(cue awed gasps)

Yes, dear friends, the secret to losing weight is to stop stuffing things in your face. In fact, in order to cut weight, you should adopt an adversarial relationship with food. Food is the enemy, the Delilah to your Samson, waiting for an opening (literally) to derail you with its promise of delicious delicious fat. Do not succumb. Try to forget how delicious an entire loaf of pumpernickel raisin bread truly is. Also bacon. Also army-sized bowls of pasta. Also brownies. And ribeye steaks.

And I'll tell you why you must forget these things and here's where the real secret lies: rarely is what you're about to eat as good as you want it to be. The number of times I've looked longingly at a chocolate chip cookie or brownie and then remembered that 98% of the time when I would buy those things before, they were rarely as good as I wanted them to be is staggering. Macaroni and cheese is another. Sure, all macaroni and cheese is good enough, but very little of it is transcendent. And if I'm going to eat it, I want it to rock my world.

For example, this afternoon I'm meeting my former chef from db for a bite at the new Payard on West Houston. What? you say, you're going to a patisserie? Quelle temptation! Indeed it will be. But I will order what I want and proceed as follows: take one bite; if confection is remarkable, take 3-4 more; else, stop eating. You see? This kind of thing works if you remind yourself that you'd like to be able to reserve those cheaty calories on things that are really really phenomenal and that you can't do that if you cram mediocre fat into your piehole (pies are another category of things that rarely measure up to expectation).

I'm halfway there. Halfway to a weight I haven't been since puberty. A made up number, really. A guess as to what would be healthy and look good. And I'm halfway to it.

And We're Off

Great Smoky National Park, here we come! Finally figured out how to attach my tripod to my camera bag. The staggering array of printed material concerning planes, cars, and lodgings has been duly printed. I'm sort of packed. As is devoted partner. What remains is a little bit of personal grooming and to call a cab.

In the meantime, though, I thought I'd talk a little bit about food. And the little of it I've been eating recently. You see, the south is full of magical wondrous hideously fattening food of which I occasionally (fine, often) dream. Devoted partner and I, while making progress towards ultimate defatification, kind of slid a little there for a while. Back on the horse, I knew I had to make some serious progress ahead of this trip in order to enjoy pork and hushpuppies and pie without guilt. Now that the trip is upon us, though, I worry about my willpower - after all 12 hushpuppies tasted 12x as good as 1.

So I'm going to make a concerted effort to not clean my plate. I will order what I like and nibble at it, the way I see skinny people do (how do they do this?!?). I will remember that most pie is disappointing and not eat some that isn't stupendous - and only eat half of stupendous slices of pie. I will, while scarfing down pulled pork, remember that the reason it tastes so good is that it was cooked long enough that all the delicious fat had time to sink into the meat. And I will try my hardest not to mainline hushpuppies.

I'm at, what I like to call, a manageable weight right now. I look in the mirror and don't want to kill myself. All clothing that should fit does fit. I would like to not return home next Tuesday weighing five pounds more than I do now.

But then I remind myself that we signed up for a full day of rafting in August. Clearly there's A LOT of rowing in my future!

Down 9 - Sort Of

I decided to fold in the first two days of March since February doesn't have enough days (and also because in the first two days of March the two pounds that should have melted away throughout February decided to come off). So February wasn't a huge success.

Which confounds me I must say. Yes there were three days in February that were gluttonous, but I hardly think that three days should wipe out a month's progress. So yeah, I cheated and took two of March's days. So sue me. End result is I am nine pounds thinner than I was at the beginning of 2010.

And I wasn't going to talk about that today until my train ride. A woman sat down next to me this morning and the first thing I noticed about her were her very cool, driving-inspired, navy leather gloves. I made a note to tell her, once she got settled, how cool I thought her gloves were. Then I looked at her. Jesus, she had an awesome haircut. A very modern, sideswept pageboy in a delightful shade of real blonde. Now I was going to tell her two things I thought were fantastic. Then she took off her plain black wool coat and the interior seams were edged in bright orange. Ok, three things. Then I saw her handbag: a camel-colored bowling-style bag with red and navy accents. This woman was knocking it out of the park on so many levels. And I told her so.

But it got me thinking. My wardrobe is a) tiny, b) solidly colored, and c) comprised almost entirely of stuff off the Gap/Banana Republic/Old Navy sales racks. Excepting footwear, I cannot think of a single cool wardrobe item I own...Yep, I thought about it again and the answer remains the same. Now I'll put my unmentionables collection up against anyone save Dita von Teese and win, but my clothing: jeans, t-shirts, a couple of button-downs from Uniqlo, some H&M stuff, and a couple of BCBG dresses I bought off ebay.

Why is this?

Well, my first answer is that clothing has never been something I've been willing to spend a lot of money on. My second answer is that I'm not a big fan of shopping. I don't like searching for things (it's why I love to shop online) so you won't find me going through the racks at Marshall's or Filene's looking for a good deal.

But why?

Certainly I feel good when I look good, and I frequently covet pieces I see on others. Well the real answer is a combination of the first two as they relate to: I never wanted to buy nice clothing for the body I had. I imagine a scenario where I find a cool jacket, or dress, or something, and buy it in my current size - let's say I spend more than $500 but less than $1000. I don't want to be this size so ultimately, one hopes, I'll be smaller. And out $500-$1000. Which sucks. Buying my wardrobe for a year at H&M for $500 total seemed to make more sense. I could always dress it up with shoes.

I don't feel that as a work in progress I can spend money on clothing. Dare I say I don't think I deserve it? The prevailing wisdom is that you should reward yourself for weight loss: little things for little milestones and something big when you get to your goal. Well, I've known for a couple of years what that goal reward would be: and Herve Leger dress. Except when I remember what those dresses cost and then become gunshy. Even in my fantasy. Sure, I can buy an $8 nail polish for losing 5 pounds, but I can't even imagine shelling out a grand for a dress. Even a reward dress. Even a reward dress for shedding a whole bunch of weight that would enable me to look like a not-Orca in said dress.

This is just not a mentality I have. Clothing is, generally, functional and black. Not fun, not the latest style, not from Intermix (I don't even know if Intermix counts as a place I should shop, that's how clueless I am). But seeing this woman this morning, a woman probably five or so years younger than I, looking so put together and so, well, cool, made me stop and consider putting a greater priority on how I look (I am, by the way, in my Gap jeans, Uniqlo shirt, and H&M blazer right now, my hair is washed but unstyled and I don't have makeup on).

I'm not going to go out and buy a wardrobe for FatMe because I can't justify the expenditure nor rewarding myself for having poor impulse control around butter, but I am debating an experiment wherein I "do" myself up every morning for a week to see just how long it takes. So many other women seem to find the time, shouldn't I at least give it a shot? I'm also seriously considering giving away a lot of my paltry wardrobe because many of the items I have are merely functional and have no style whatsoever. Also, I noticed that I haven't worn a lot of them in quite some time (and not just because I can wear jeans to the office). And finally, I'm going back to online clothing window shopping. Not for right now, but to start thinking about the kinds of things I might like to wear when my body is at a different, thinner place.

In the meantime, if you see me wearing something you would rather see in the trash heap, please let me know.

Down 7

Since I would like to be thought of as so much more than an eater of cookies, I have vowed not to bore you with the daily trials and tribulations of defatification 2010. After all, it would only be embarrassing for both of us if the true number of times in a month I think about donuts was revealed. However, by way of keeping me honest, I think I shall update you at the end of each month. January was a good month. I exercised, I ate modest amounts of cheese, there were no cookies to speak of.

While the traditional dieting month is January, this is actually a continuation of defatification 2008 which was derailed in 2009 by stress/moving/laziness. And that would be my lesson: laziness is the true enemy of not-fat.

If you appraise your intake with an objective eye, it is easy to see that how much we eat is frequently more of the problem than what we eat. I say this as a devourer of boxes of cookies and loaves of bread. Bread is not my problem, bread in moderation is. But when I allocate the brain space to consider bread in relation to reasonable amounts, it is really quite easy to see that two pieces of bread is ok and anything more than that is becoming not ok. See also steak.

Devoted partner and I do love our red meat. We never ate it an immoderate number of times per week, but when we did eat it, we had a one pound steak between us. Also known as about twice the amount of steak one should consume. And every once in a while, like when your brother and his friend complete the New York marathon and you all go to Sparks to celebrate, yeah, eat up. That steak cost like 50 bucks! But when it's just the two of you on a Wednesday night, perhaps you could eat less steak and more of something else, like peas.

Dessert is the other biggie. I will admit that a day without dessert is, indeed a day without sunshine. And here I had to make a choice. Which was more important? Dessert or eating things without strange ingredients? Yeah, dessert won. Those sugar-free Jello puddings, I don't know what's in them, but I do know that they are the difference between sunshine-free days and days with sunshine; see also the tragically hip skinny cow ice cream sandwiches. Sorry all-natural eating, but butter, like steak, is for special occasions in such immoderate amounts.

Special occasions like The Superbowl. I will admit, part of my looking forward to the big game (which I believe is being played between the Saints and the Colts) is that I have already decreed it an armistice day. Yelena and chicken wings may meet on the field of battle and enjoy one another's company without altering the outcome of the larger confrontation. Also, I am the bringer of Superbowl desserts, and I look forward to sampling my own wares. Immodestly forward.

So I will stop boring you for the time being. January was a good month and since my other idea for what to write about today was people who sing or whistle in the train, I thought this might sound ever so slightly less crazy. Good weekends to all.

Mii

So I would like to have a conference with you wherein we discuss how I would like our future conversations to run.

You: Hey, Yelena, I see you've taken up a new hobby.
Me: What?
You: Eating cookies!

Why is it that the only person who can, with no embarrassment, call me an Orca to my face is my brother. He'll take one look at me and go, "shut your piehole, fatty." The rest of you are in severe dereliction of duty. Chances are I know I've fallen off the cookie wagon, but your reprimands keep me honest.

In lieu of your assistance, I have taken up with Todd. Todd is a pixelated trainer, and his name is not Todd. He doesn't have a name, but he looks like a Todd, so I have decided to call him Todd. I have no illusions that Super Hula Hooping for 10 minutes a day followed by Rhythm Kung Fu will be any kind of antidote to the cookie-as-meal conundrum, but I hear tell that some movement is considered better than no movement, and spending 30 minutes a day with Todd and the Super Hula Hooping avatars is, at least, fun. And can be done from the comfort of my own house.

The surprise in all of this is the Wii Yoga. You may have heard me mock yoga, or at least mock yoga practitioners, among whom my mother may be counted. Yoga on its own seems innocuous, but it is frequently followed by faux-Buddhism and vegetarianism, two things I think we should eradicate sooner rather than later. When in college, I tried my hand at some yoga. It was an unmitigated disaster. In the best of shape I am not what one would call especially graceful, add n pounds and I start to resemble the elephant seal using its stomach to flop itself onto shore. So I was in a yoga class with my college classmates, the vast majority of whom were at least 20 pounds slimmer than I, and therefore, even if not graceful, not graceful while taking up less space.

I lasted two classes before I crawled back to my room to sit in the dark, eat M&Ms, and cry over my poor coordination and lack of rear end definition.

So yoga and I were on the outs until Todd came along. He told me I could try out yoga in the safety of my own home, where (even though I rationally know no one was looking at me before) no one would look at me and giggle at my falling down thing, nor where I would have to see myself in bike shorts and a jog bra writ large on a massive workout room mirror, and where I could discover that, hey, yoga is like really good stretching.

It's not going to make me thinner, but it might strangely, make me more coordinated if I do it from time to time (fine, twice a week). Yes, there were some poses - I'm looking at you shoulder stand; are you kidding me with that? what possibly makes you think normal people should bend like that - that perhaps should be reattempted when I am overall more comfortable, but I can stand on one leg while holding the other leg out and stretching with the opposing arm. In fact, it feels really nice. Like when devoted partner pulls on my leg.

So Todd and I will continue to work out together - he tells me I'm doing a good job and, unlike real life trainers, does not require $75 every time we hang out. I look forward to my Mii looking slightly less like a ball and slightly more like a person. Now if only I could find out whether or not there are any more songs worth unlocking on Dance Dance Revolution.

Emulation

I made it through the danger period of smoking without putting on 20 pounds. I carefully watched my habits because I knew I was going to want to put something in my mouth and that something couldn't be a cigarette. Then, about a month ago, my vigilance took a holiday. Suddenly I was ravenous and only for the very worst things. I began looking at loaves of bread as an appropriate meal and packages of sweets as a single serving size. This has not been kind to my physique. After confronting the number on the scale which, in retrospect could have been far worse, I have determined to be more considerate of my body. It does not hurt that in four weeks I will be on a beach.

I'm confronted with a problem that, if popular thought is to be believed, is unusual: I eat because I like food. A lot. I don't eat more when I'm happy or more when I'm sad. I occasionally eat more when I'm bored (see former job and Reese's peanut butter cup 'issue'). I don't eat because my parents didn't love me or because I program myself for failure or even because I have one of those thyroid disorders that once you get medication for you become thin. I simply think food is fantastic. Eating is a hobby. If you'd ask me which I'd prefer to spend money on, a dress or a great meal, I will gladly take the great meal and show up to it in yet another jersey dress from the Gap. I don't understand people who DON'T love to eat.

Sadly, what I love to eat is almost never vegetables (which I believe are merely a butter delivery service) and, as such, I have some challenges in the svelte department.

But there came a time, after the horrors of overweight adolescence when I simply could not ever bother to think I looked good that I realized something: in the world where I get to a healthier weight I will still look nothing like Michelle Pfeiffer. As such, perhaps I should look to different women for my style choices. Enter a delightful fascination with Sophia Loren, a woman who, at a healthier weight, I stand a much better chance of looking like. Armed with this knowledge, I bought my first two-piece bathing suit at 17 - I haven't bought a one-piece since. I got rid of bulky clothing and anything that didn't hug or flatter. I started playing up my legs by wearing higher and better shoes. This revelation is why my wardrobe is stylistically very similar to my wardrobe senior year in high school: I found what worked.

But before you start loathing me for being so incredibly smug and self-aware, I give you The Former Job Years. Former job and I did not get along and I suffered cosmetically for it (I also maintain that my health suffered, but I'm no scientician). I didn't care what I looked like and didn't really notice how little my clothing fit. I replaced pencil skirts with voluminous ones and form fitting dresses with those empire-waisted things we've all been wearing for several years that make us look both pregnant and comfortable. When I look in my closet now, though it's full, there's nearly nothing I want to wear (and, here's the Catch-22, don't want to buy a new wardrobe while I'm not at a permanent weight).

I have always maintained that confidence cures most things, and I think this is especially true for body image issues. Even when I'm not feeling confident, I try to project confidence. I stand up straight, I walk with a sway to my hips, and I smile from beneath half-lidded eyes - or at least that's what I think I do. It helps to camouflage an extra five pounds better than any support hose I've seen.

But I won't say it's not difficult to look around and not see any woman in the public eye that I could share clothing with. I won't be swapping sweaters with Angelina Jolie; or, on the other side of things, with Kelly Clarkson. Except one.

Dear Christina Hendricks, thank you so much for reminding me why I stocked up on pencil skirts and tight sweaters once upon a time. Thank you for encouraging me to put on the black, form-fitting mock turtleneck dress this morning with black stockings and my new red shoes for no reason other than I wanted to look beautiful. Thank you for being in a show I enjoy watching so that I get an opportunity to get some style pointers from someone who looks like I look. This enables me to be less bummed that I look ridiculous in a Polo shirt, and it motivates me to get to a weight where I want to buy clothes again.

So I'm doing my best to "work it" today, as the kids would say. I think a lot of women would be surprised how much head turning a girl can generate simply by behaving like a woman who turns heads. Forty pounds be damned!