Winding a Ribbon around a Lamp Post, Over and Over

I was so fit when Christmas arrived that I could wear any outfit I owned.  My stomach was as flat as I'll ever know it.  As I indulged in holiday treats, I could literally feel the sugar I ate pushing out my belly to a larger size.

Since then, I have been making up rules for myself that I don't follow.

Such as, NO MORE SUGAR UNTIL YOU DROP THE NEXT POUND.

But, sugar has a way of popping up in my life (as well as popping out my tummy), and, if there's one thing I know, rules don't help you a bit when you don't follow them.

I made out a nice, easy schedule outlining how I would lose one pound each week, and then I watched my scale not follow it, but hover six to ten pounds above where I'd been before Christmas.

Not fun times.

I made another nice, easy schedule outlining how I would lose one pound each week, and then I watched my scale not follow that schedule, either.

One dreary morning, I sat down with myself to have a performance review.  What on earth was going wrong?  Why was I not measuring up?  It was time to stop sliding, skating, procrastinating, justifying, rationalizing, and lying to myself.

Honestly, I had to admit, when someone brought Banbury Cross to staff meeting, I wanted to have one. And when I made chocolate chip cookies, I wanted to have several.  And taste the dough, too.  And the Christmas candy had to be gotten rid of.  And when I found two candy bars in a drawer I was cleaning out, well, obviously, I couldn't just leave them there.  I wasn't able to keep my no-sugar rules.

I asked myself what do I really want.  You know, like, really.  Other than the obvious--to eat whatever I want and still look like a fitness queen.

It was time to look real closely at some hard truths.

Hard truth number one: when I eat sugar, I gain weight.  I've performed this experiment enough times--usually around Christmas and Easter--that there's not really a whole lot of  room for doubt.  The variable is sugar.  The result, weight gain.  Time after time.  Hypothesis proven.

Hard truth number two: I am not a person who can anticipate giving up sugar for life with any feelings of joy.

Hard truth number three: it may not be easy to reconcile hard truths one and two.

Will power and sacrifice are noble aims, but not when they stand in the way of your happiness.  Indulgence can play an important role, but not when it stands in the way of your dreams and goals.  Neither one, by itself, was going to get me where I wanted to be.

Was it possible to get where I wanted to be?  Who knew?  But it had to be worth a try.  As my mother noticed when I was a toddler winding a ribbon around a lamp post over and over, trying to get it to stay, I am not a person who gives up easily on what I want.  I always tend to believe there has to be a way, even if I have to try things I've never considered trying before.

I acknowledged to myself that I really do want to be able to eat sweet treats sometimes.  Saying "never" makes me feel deprived. And, depending on how deprived I get to be feeling, then, when I do eat some sugar, it can be hard for me to stop eating sugar.

But I knew the answer could not be to just abandon my no-sugar rules.  There's no arguing with science.

Hard truth number 4: what I was doing wasn't working--neither the eating whatever I wanted nor the trying not to eat it at all.  So, what would?

I realized the perfect answer couldn't be ALL or NOTHING.  It had to be a moderation between the two.

I had to come up with a plan that would take away the eating too much AND the deprivation.  And in a hurry--before Easter got here and poofed out my tummy even further.

I decided my new plan had to allow me to eat some sugar, but not too much.  It had to leave me feeling not deprived, but not let me be saturated in sweets, either.  I decided to reverse my approach and eat one sugary thing a day.  One.  Not more than one.

And, of course, I still had to do all the other things I do to be healthy--exercising daily, eating a basically healthy diet, getting enough sleep, watching portion sizes, drinking water.

I needed a plan that would get me through every day.  Regular days, holidays, week days, weekend days, sick days, vacation days, any day for the rest of my life.  Because I am tired of playing yo-yo.  I don't ever want to gain weight again.  I don't want to make up for bad times.  I don't want to have bad times.

The first couple of days, I told myself that I had to eat that one cookie in the same manner that I make myself eat my daily orange, or my daily apple.  If eating one cookie would keep me from feeling deprived and be the answer to my problem, then I had to do it, right?

It's called "reverse psychology."  And, no, I'm not above using it on myself.

Somehow, having to eat a cookie changes up the dynamic in a big way.

I ate the one cookie I had to eat and didn't need to eat another like I had before.  I don't ever go and get a second orange right after I eat the first one.  I don't ever eat two apples at one go.  So, I need to feel that way about sweets, too--one is enough.  For me, because of the way I trip myself up, one may even be necessary or good for me in some weird way, but it is enough.

Another facet of not feeling deprived is that, once I have had one thing, if there is another sugary thing I could eat, it has to wait until the next day.  This ensures that I know I have a treat for the next day--not a bad psychological move, either.  This eliminates the need I seem to have to eat whatever treats are available in case I do not get another one for a long time. (I came from a family with eight kids.  If you didn't eat something when you had a chance, the chance could disappear.)

One of my kids asked me recently, "Mom, are you on a diet?"

It felt great to say, "No.  I don't diet anymore.  I just keep some rules."  No longer "dieting" has removed the temptation to eat all the sugar I want today because I won't be able to tomorrow.  I know I will have another treat tomorrow.  Because I've saved it for tomorrow.

Zero, or one, I told myself over and over, as needed.  In a day, I can have zero, or I can have one.  Never two.  This year, Christmas will simply mean that I just have a really big supply of treats.  If it takes me until March to eat them all, so be it. 

After several days of eating one treat and no more, I noticed that I didn't need it anymore.  I went a few days without sugar, knowing that I could have one thing if I had one thing to have.  And that the next time I had one sugary thing to eat, I could have it.

Pressure off.

Suddenly, I found that I was eating treats responsibly.  Sounds like an oxymoron to my former way of thinking, but, hey, if it works. . .

So, does it work?

This Easter came and went without me gaining any weight.  None at all.  Zippo.  Not an ounce.  And I have had sugar every day of the past three weeks.  Sounds as close to my dream world as I can probably get.

Truth be told, I haven't started on my Easter candy yet.  But that's because, on Easter, my husband made an amazing cheesecake/cake.  Fortunately, I had the foresight to ask him if there would be a dessert that day, and he said yes.  So, I didn't have any Easter candy.  Knowing I could eat all of it later without gaining any weight, though, I was able to put it aside.

On Easter and the two days following, my choice of sugar treat was to have one slice of that cake.  When that was gone, I turned to a box of candy that a friend had given me.  Small pieces of candy seem like bites to me, and I once heard that you could enjoy desserts if you only allowed yourself three bites.  So, having two or three pieces of candy made that box last over a week.  Would it have in the past?  Honestly, probably not.

Then, I had company over, so I made a cake.  My sugar treat for two days was a small piece of cake.

My Easter candy is still waiting for me.  It has not made me fat, because I haven't had any of it yet.  I have not been depriving myself of sugar, but allowing myself sugar almost daily.  Believe me, it feels different.  It feels like I am always in control, and it feels like I can always have whatever one thing I want each day.

When I want more than one thing, I remind myself, no, I had that, so I will save this one for tomorrow.  I decide: which one do I want most to have today?  And which will I skip or save?

Guess if I think this is worth it.  There's no more guilt over eating, ever.  No more pig-out days or days of deprivation.  No more worrying about whether I will be able to fit in an outfit, or about how I will look for upcoming events. The weight loss is slower, but more sure.  Over and above normal fluctuation, there are no more weight gains.  Would it be worth it to you?

Even my children are catching on and talking about what they will choose to have each day and what they will save to have another day.  Much better for them than gobbling it all up at once.

Once again, like so many other things I have struggled to get control of in my life, the answer turns out to be moderation, balance. 

When I start on my Easter candy, it will not make me fat.  It will stretch on and on, keeping me feeling happy and secure, but not adding weight, for days to come.  Because my needs and my wants are now balanced, I don't get out of whack with non-sugar days that make me feel deprived and way-too-much sugar days that make me gain weight.  Every day there is a small sacrifice, yes, but, every day, there is also a small sugary reward, and even bigger quality of life rewards.

That's a win-win if I ever heard of one.

Washing Paper Flowers

I'm in spring cleaning mode.  I've taken this week off work, and, frankly, nothing in my house that's dirty or cluttery is safe or too sacred.

That goes for things I've saved and cherished for years.  Well, not all things.  But, even if something serves a functional purpose, but I've had it for decades and it's ugly and broken, it had better beware.

My stack of newspapers is gone.

The lamp that was a birthday present from my parents on the first birthday when I was married (and the only present I got that year) has been replaced.

These are scary times.

Walls are being washed.  Blinds are being scoured.  The carpet cleaner is scheduled. 

My books, which have been associating with Paul's books at random in ways very supportive of diversity have now been organized by type and ordered by greatness.  Shakespeare, of course, takes prominence on my beautiful new Christmas bookshelf, and it goes down from there.  (Don't worry--I'm not an apostate.  Scriptures are in another place.)

My children were all enlisted to clean their rooms--yes, even under the beds--before we could go out and have any spring break fun.

These are the best and worst of times.

That is why, when bustling my way through the living room yesterday, I did not hesitate much when I came to a philosophical crisis.  My vase of paper flowers.  The vase and the flowers were my first anniversary gift.  You know, the paper anniversary.  Paul had picked out twenty-four lilies, daisies, and flags made of sturdy paper for me.

I have kept them.

Fifteen years.

I've dusted them off many times, but, as I'm sure you can imagine, it is not easy to brush dust off of textured paper.  With hollows and crevices.  For fifteen years.

Dust had been embedded in them, and, over time, some of the petals had curled up.  All right, a lot of the petals had curled up.  Honestly, they were pretty unsightly.

The sentimental me lost a quick arm wrestling match with the spring cleaning me.  They went into the kitchen wastebasket, and I cleaned out and polished the vase.

I'll buy some more, I told myself.  Surely, no one else I know who keeps a clean house would keep paper flowers for over fifteen years.  Surely, Paul would understand.  Surely, I could find some more that I liked just fine at a craft store.  Surely, it would be okay.

Paul came home from work just as dusk was falling gently in the dimly-lit bedroom and I was completing my last set of abs.  "Hi," he waved at me from the door.

"Wait," I said.  "Come in."  He sat on the edge of the bed, but I could hardly look at him.  "I did something I feel bad about," I told him.

He gazed back, as unflappable as ever.  At least outwardly, Paul takes bad news like he's hearing a weather report.  He honestly believes me to be the most honest person he has ever known.  He is firmly convinced that I could never ever in a million years cheat on him.  Because of this, it's impossible to make him jealous.  Which is smart of him.  And, I'm sure he's right.  Sometimes, it has been infuriating that he believes that about me.  Also, that he is right about it.  But, I digress.

I told him I had relocated his first anniversary present from the bookcase in the living room to the kitchen wastebasket a few feet away from there.  I said it in a tone that attempted to make it sound like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.  After all, who would keep dirty paper flowers?  Right?

"I noticed they were missing," he said.

Paul, whom I suspect could probably not describe what I wore that very day, had noticed they were missing.

"I kept the vase," I said.

I told him of my plan to purchase new ones to replace them with.  I talked about how dirty and crumpled they were.  Then, I showed him.  He said the right things--that he could understand the reasons why.  He was less sure about my ability to replace them.  He went to the computer to look up places to buy paper flowers and came up pretty much empty.

I told him that I could also replace them with silk flowers.  He didn't exactly say it, but I could tell from his tone that the idea of replacing paper flowers with silk ones made no sense at all to him.  It had been our paper anniversary, not our silk one--that was anniversary number twelve.

To me, the point was to have a beautiful home, and, whether the flowers in the vase were paper or silk didn't matter much, as long as they were not dirty or cluttery.  I told him I would always remember that he had given me the paper flowers.

This morning, we went shopping for lamps and paper flowers.  The lamps we found.  Paper flowers, not so much.  We went to a store that had an overwhelming supply of silk flowers.  There were many lovely options.  Too many.  I could tell that it would take me a couple of hours to sort through all of the possibilities to find the ones I wanted the most.

Also, looking at all the silk flowers they had made me sad.

None of them was like the ones I had thrown away.  Not a one.  I could see that Paul's unspoken thought was true.  What he had done for me was not replaceable.  I began to regret my action in a big way.

"Let's go," I said.  My new feelings gave me a profound sense of urgency.  "Come on!  Let's get out of here," I urged.  "I won't find what I want here."

I could hardly wait to get home.  While Paul got ready to assemble the lamps, I rushed to the wastebasket.  "They have other stuff dumped on them by now," he said, and he was right.  But I didn't care.  Why on earth had I not tried to save them before throwing them away?  If I was going to wash dust off them, I could also wash off the egg shells from the kids' breakfast and bits of the yam he had thrown away. If they were ruined, they were ruined.  I would not be any farther behind than I already was.

I gathered up all twenty-four and set them aside on a towel.  One by one, I washed their stems and let the water from the faucet run over their petals.  Lovingly, I rubbed the petals and reshaped them into the lovely flowers they had been to begin with.  It was surprisingly easy to resurrect them.  Only once did I rub one so hard that the paper started to come off the center. I quickly put it back in place and handled them more gingerly.  Only once did a petal tear.  Only one flower fell apart to the point that I might throw it away for reals.

It was amazingly easy to save and restore the paper flowers my husband gave me for our first anniversary, all those years ago.  I wish I had thought of this sooner.  So often, we think we don't want anymore something given in love, when only a little bit of thought and loving care would make it as vibrant as new. We take for granted that we can replace something unique and precious.

I think we're good for another fifteen years.