“The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face”

Claire will be here in a few hours! Her mom and dad are ripping out old carpet today and new carpet will be laid tomorrow, and since tacking and 2 1/2-year-old feet are not compatible, Claire will spend a few days with Grammy Lynn.

I thought since I will be disposed for a few days, I’d post an essay I wrote in December 2006. Saturday would be my 28th wedding anniversary, and thankfully April 3 will end another year of anniversaries. All the more reason to love spring.

“The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face”

I forget his face sometimes. I try really hard and shut my eyes tight and I can sense his body, but I can’t see his face. I guess it’s because I never thought to remember those everyday moments of seeing someone I thought would be there forever.

I know I looked in Bruce’s eyes at our wedding when we said our vows. I know I was holding his hands. I know I kissed him at the reception every time someone clinked their glasses. But I don’t remember looking into his eyes.

I remember stopping at the bowling alley on our way to the Holiday Inn in Sioux Falls and eating hamburgers while still dressed in our wedding clothes. I remember taking the dozens of hair pins out of my hair that night and him laughing at the sticking up curly mess they left. I know we made love, but I can’t see his face.

I know Bruce’s eyes when I see them in photographs. They were soft and brown like a puppy’s, but because I can’t see them in my mind’s eye, I fear we never were. Did Bruce really exist or did his death take our history? Our daughter is real and her eyes look like his, but when I look at her I see Carlene, not Bruce.

Then, on a dark, gray, rainy morning more than 23 years later, listening to Roberta Flack sing “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” a small detail emerged. It unfolded in my mind like a delicate piece of paper. The detail was so small, and yet I burst into tears in the parking lot of the gym – happy it was there and so sad that he wasn’t.

I remembered the softness of the hair on his chest.

What happened next was a cascade of remembering. One thought created a flood of memories I never wanted to forget again, and so I wrote them down on deposit slips from my checkbook because I had no paper with me.

I remembered how we’d lay on our bed and talk for hours listening to music with just the light from the stereo shining on us. I loved to touch his hair lightly and run my fingers across his muscles while my head rested just below his shoulder.

I remembered the feeling of missing him when he was away at work, the thrill of hearing his truck pull into the drive, holding his hand while we drove, watching him drum the steering wheel to “Juke Box Hero” while driving our red Citation.

I remembered watching him feed cows and vaccinate pigs and sitting with him in the tractor in the pitch dark waiting for his brother to return from combining beans. We sang “Endless Love” at the top of our lungs – he singing Diana Ross’s part and me Lionel Ritchie’s.

I remembered taking off my shirt one Sunday afternoon in spring as we walked through the pasture and the freedom of making love to him in the sunshine.

I remembered the night a few days before Carlene was born when I was watching TV alone and suddenly went cold inside. I had a feeling Bruce was dead. He was bowling (it was league night) and I called the bowling alley. They got him on the phone and I said, “I know this sounds stupid, but would you come home?” Five minutes later I heard a train whistle. I started crying, convinced he’d not heard it. A few minutes later, his headlights shined on our garage. I greeted him at the door, bawling, and he laughed lightly and reassured me he was fine. We blamed it on hormones and sat on the couch and watched the last episode of MASH. Two weeks later, he was killed by a train.

Sometimes I think I’ve clogged my life with so much busyness that I don’t know which moments are truly important enough to remember. Thank god Roberta Flack and her bittersweet song helped me remember that long ago there was a boy who made me feel unlike anyone ever has, and that he had soft hair on his chest.

Ode to My Size 28 Black Stretch Pants

I recently asked the folks on Lynn’s Weigh on Facebook (BTW, are you a “fan” yet? Click here to check it out!) what they do with clothes that no longer fit as they lose weight. Most folks said they give them away (Debra suggested the organization Dress For Success), which is what I eventually did, but it took awhile for me to trust myself not to need them again.

Getting rid of old clothes is empowering, but I strongly urge you to keep one item of clothing to remind you where you’ve been and how far you’ve come, especially on those days when you struggle and think, Why am I doing this?

I kept one lone item of clothing from my 300-pound days: my size 28 black stretch pants. I wore them every day. They were my constant companion. They even went with me to the Adirondacks where I allowed my husband to take the only full-body photo of me at my highest weight (see “I *Heart* Burlington, Vermont” for the full story).

My size 28 black stretch pants were literally stretched to their limit. As I grew larger, holes began to form. Stains no longer washed out. I didn’t know it at the time, but those holes and stains reflected how I felt about myself, namely that I wasn’t worth taking care of.

Eventually I invested in Weight Watchers rather than another new wardrobe, but my confidence level was still pretty low. Fifty pounds into my weight loss, I was still wearing my old size 28 wardrobe. I posted on the WW discussion board (the 100+ To Lose board was my salvation) that my clothes bagged significantly, but that I wasn’t sure if I should buy new clothes or wait. I felt guilty about spending the money since I wasn’t convinced I wouldn’t gain it all back, and sadly I’d given away all my smaller clothes as I marched up the scale, convinced I’d be morbidly obese the rest of my life. (*See my side story at the end of this blog.)

A WW board member named CrispyRice encouraged me to invest in a few things in a smaller size. She said wearing clothes that fit would help me see the results of my weight loss, which in turn would encourage me to keep going. She also told me to not buy all black – my typical “hiding” color – and to shop at Goodwill and other second-hand shops.

Her advice was spot on. Not only did I feel good about buying a smaller size – a pair of size 24 khaki shorts and a white XL shirt (down from 3X) – I felt smaller in lighter colors and wearing fabric close to my skin as opposed to it hanging limp and devoid of form.

More importantly, I felt confident in my new, smaller clothes. Confident that I’d no longer need my larger sized wardrobe. Confident that I wasn’t gaining my weight back, not if I had anything to say about it. I bagged up the 28s and the 30/32 pant suit and gave them to Goodwill, all except for the size 28 black stretch pants – which, lest you think me tacky, I wouldn’t have actually given away given their condition. But I didn’t throw them away, either, because we have a history. They elicit the same feelings I have about photographs or special gifts.

My size 28 black stretch pants are my friend. I was wearing them the moment I joined WW online. They were on camera with me when I was on Today (both times) and Entertainment Tonight (crazy, I know) when I was promoting the People magazine's “Half Their Size” issue in 2008. And as my friend, my pants help me through those days when I wonder: Why am I doing this? Why do I journal my food? Why do I eat the way I do? Why do I (usually) say no to chocolate cake, mac n’ cheese, and half in half in my coffee? I love those things!

“Ah,” say the size 28 black stretch pants, “but you love yourself even more.”

See why we’re BFF?

(*Side story: The only exception to giving all my smaller clothes away as I was gaining weight the last time, was a size 16 lined suit that I’d only worn once. I called it my “dream suit.” When I was 300 pounds, I dreamed that it would one day fit again, but dreaming was all I did about my weight for several years. When I started to lose weight, that suit became my “goal suit.” I tried it on every other week when I got down to 200 pounds. I used the zipper as a gage for how many inches I was losing. When I was 180, Larry and I moved and I got so busy unpacking that I forgot about my goal suit. By the time I dug it out, I weighed around 155 and it was too big. Sigh. I’d missed my window of opportunity. But I still honor it for the icon it was, even though it’s probably hanging in someone else’s closet.)

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Thank you to all of you for your comments and email on my last post regarding sexuality and weight. NOT an easy subject to think about, let alone talk about, but a few brave souls did.

Congrats to Alexandra for winning the “Cardio Striptease” DVD! Alexandra blogs at “Adventures of a Done Girl Named Alex” if you want to give it a look see.

Video Review: “Cardio Striptease” (giveaway and perhaps some TMI inside)

My daughter Cassie wrote the first half of this review. My comments follow (along with a question about sexuality). If you want to win this video, leave a comment or send an email to lynnbering@verizon.net and I’ll draw a winner on Saturday!

Cassie’s Review:

When I first sat down to write this review of “Dance Off The Inches: Cardio Striptease” featuring Megan Armand, I had only completed the workout once and wasn’t really pleased. I sucked it up and did it a second time and was in a better place. I don’t know if I will continue with it, but it was a nice change of pace.

“Cardio Striptease” isn’t really about performing strippers’ moves as much as dance club moves. Workout wise, it was different from all of my other DVDs. It was fun, humorous, and had me laughing out loud. That in and of itself was worth the time put in to complete the workout. It wasn’t difficult by any means, and only a few times did I feel my heart rate elevate.

A move that I did enjoy was the one in which I’d squat fast and then slap my inner knees before slowly rise to standing. It made me feel hot and in charge.

When Megan would tell me to move sexy it would make me giggle and I’d feel both silly and glad that no one was watching me. Then I would get into it, and then I was really glad no one was watching, but I was having fun!

On a beginner level, this DVD is perfect for shaking it up. I would imagine that if I was having a fat/bloated/taking-on-water day this would be great to make me feel empowered again. It takes the same, mundane lower body exercises and makes them fun and full of energy. It’s good for anyone of any age and any fitness level.

I’d also recommend you do this DVD on either a weight training day or on a break day because it may not pump up the heart rate enough to be counted as a full cardio workout.

My overall impression “Cardio Striptease” is fun and flirty, but just not enough “oomph” to get me excited to do it again.

Lynn’s Two-Cents

The only thing I’d add to Cassie’s review is that I recommend you do this exercise on a hard surface and not carpet. It was a little hard on my knees and I couldn’t perform all the moves completely, but if your knees are in overall good condition, you’re in for a nice lower body and core workout.

Having said that, I got way more out of this video on an emotional level than a physical one. I know that sounds out there – I mean, it’s an exercise video for goodness sake. But maybe a few of you might understand where I’m coming from.

I grew up Lutheran in Minnesota. Not that that’s a bad thing, but it made me a bit anal retentive. I’ve also never been very graceful, and I get less coordinated the worse my knees get. Anal retentive plus graceless uncoordination plus overall body issues equals one very self-conscious woman.

I’ve been embarrassed by my body all my life, regardless of what I weigh. And while I’m comfortable talking about sex and have (obviously) had sex, I’ve never been comfortable with my body on a sexual level. Sexy has never been an adjective I’ve used to describe myself. That’s why “Cardio Striptease” took me WAY out of my comfort zone and despite my knees was difficult to get through.

The DVD features 10 moves, including the Booty Sit and Press and Swerve. The names alone made me blush. Megan encourages viewers to “work the hair” and “imagine you’re in stilettos,” but all the time I kept thinking how unsexy I am – and not just because I was wearing a grungy old t-shirt. And if feeling unsexy wasn’t enough, I had to watch unsexy in the mirror.

I’ve blogged many times about skin and other related self-conscious body topics, but when I tried to pretend I was taking my clothes off all sexy like, I felt all kinds of stupid and ugly and I realized I had yet another body issue frontier to conquer.

I’m very glad my daughter doesn’t have these same hangups. She felt “hot and in charge” when she did this video. I didn’t pass on my anal retentive anti-sexy genes! Woohoo!

I’d like to say I’ve made great strides in feeling sexy since I did this video last month, but I still feel as awkward and unsexy as before. I don’t tell you this to elicit sympathy. I’m hoping this starts a conversation about body acceptance in terms of sexuality, specifically in terms of being or having been overweight or obese.

How has weight affected the way you feel about yourself sexually? I understand if you don’t want to comment. This is pretty personal stuff. But I think it’s important we all think about this. We all deserve to be sexually happy in the body we have.

‘Till I Am Myself Again

What a week off. I know many of you have gone much longer due to injury or life circumstances, but geez-oh-man, six days of no exercise had me drained and all out of sorts. OK, so maybe I was drained on Sunday because of my one-night-stand with an amazing shiraz* on Saturday night, but the rest of the time it was definitely the lack of exercise.

(*Shiraz as in red wine and not a guy named Shiraz. Just wanted to be clear.)

A wrist issue grounded me from strength training Wednesday and Thursday, and the only excuse I had for not getting on the elliptical or going for a walk was that I was ticked about my wrist. Then Friday rolled around and I was out of the house at 7 a.m. to drive 10 hours to Chicago. Again, I know many of you would’ve gotten up at 3 or 4 and worked out before leaving. I aspire to be like that one day, but I doubt that will happen. I’ll just admire you and feel a little guilty for not trying harder to be you.

I had every intention Sunday night to work out on Monday, but it was Bruce’s death anniversary and I felt negative vibes all the way to my core. I stared at my computer screen for a few hours, went to my chiropractic appointment, threw a really boring salad together and called it a day.

Then (hallelujah!) came Tuesday. I woke up feeling like I’d been run over by a truck, but I knew it was because I hadn’t worked out in six days. The child in me tried to convince the mom in me to take another day off, but thank goodness my inner mom wasn’t having any of that. She snapped her fingers and gave that whiny brat a “look.” I got on the elliptical and somewhere around minute 13 – as always, like the certainty of daybreak – the endorphins kicked in and I felt like myself again.

It’s one thing to be physically unable to work out and quite another to be consciously refusing to work out. I remember three years ago when I had the cold from hell. I lost my voice, had zero energy and couldn’t work out for two weeks. I remember crying a little because I was so frustrated that I couldn’t go to the rec center. I’d have done anything to have my energy back so I could work out. Apparently I’d forgotten what that felt like last week because I was physically capable of exercising a few days, but I didn’t.

For most of my life, no matter what I weighed, I had a nagging voice in the back of my head telling me I should lose weight and I should exercise. Obviously this self-guilting got me nowhere, otherwise I’d have been maintaining a healthy weight for years! Changing “should” to “want” has made all the difference. I want to keep my weight off and I want to exercise. It just takes some reminding by my inner mom sometimes.


Ruthann said it best when she posted over on Lynn’s Weigh on Facebook that “Exercise is part of my identity.” I may not always like to exercise, but there are many things about my life I don’t always like, but I remain committed to them because in the long run they are what sustain me and keep me balanced and emotionally healthy.

Time to hop on the bike and lift a few weights. But before I go, here’s a song that picks me up when I feeling out of sorts. It’s called “Till I Am Myself Again” by Blue Rodeo. The opening line is “I want to know where my confidence went; one day it all disappeared.” ‘Nuf said.

Courtney Love Isn't My BFF, But We Have Things In Common

All day I’ve tried to write about several things – my weekend in Chicago, how it feels to have not exercised in six days, my new-found love for porcini mushrooms – but it is March 22 and there’s nothing much else on my mind except Bruce. He died 27 years ago today.

So, if you would indulge me, I’m posting this piece I wrote three years ago. I post this in memory of Bruce and to lend a voice to those who’ve lost someone, too. Grief sucks, but it’s through remembering that we continue to heal.

I have a friend who is friends with a woman who recently met Courtney Love by chance in Hawaii and the two of them spent an evening in the hotel bar smoking cigarettes and talking.

Nothing cool like that ever happens to me, and if it did, I don’t have enough in common with Courtney Love to keep her attention for longer than it would take for me to light a match for her ciggy. I don’t smoke or do drugs (is wine a drug?). I was never in rehab. I pretty much respect authority and don’t wear a lot of lipstick. I’m not tall, I don’t wear cool clothes, I can’t play guitar, I don’t write music, I’d starve if I tried to be an actress, while I’d love to marry Justin Hayward or Jon Bon Jovi, I doubt I’ll ever marry a rock star.

It would seem Courtney Love and I are quite opposite, but her recent decision to sell Kurt Cobain’s personal belongings made me realize that we’re not so different after all. We share a common denominator: both of us were widowed soon after giving birth. That would be a subject we could chat about over a few martinis.

When someone dies, especially unexpectedly, he leaves behind all the ordinary living kinds of things – a toothbrush and razor, combs, aftershave, clothes, letters from old girlfriends, tax records, photos, school yearbooks, newspaper clippings, vacation journals, maybe a car and all the crap stuffed under the seats, trinkets and gifts that decorate the house, a CD or record collection, movies, a bike, a favorite blanket…the list goes on and on. Think about it. If you died today, all the stuff you own and use that make your life the way you know it would become someone else’s to deal with, and all that stuff has to go somewhere.
“(My house) is like a mausoleum,” Love told Spinner.com. “My daughter doesn’t need to inherit a giant...bag full of flannel... shirts,” said Love. “A sweater, a guitar and the lyrics to ‘(Smells Like) Teen Spirit’ – that’s what my daughter gets. And the rest of it we’ll just...sell.”

I gave away most of Bruce’s clothes when he died (I kept his bowling shirt) and threw out his toiletries. But I’ve hauled around boxes of his stuff from house to house to house, from marriage to marriage to marriage, and I’m thinking it’s time to lighten the load a little. Maybe it’s time to let our daughter decide what she wants to keep and what she wants to sell or toss. I have our wedding album, some photos, his letters and a memory. That’s all I need.

Well, that and the television.

Yesterday, I gave away all the things I originally was going to sell at a garage sale, but I don’t have the time to host a garage sale. One of the things in my garage (and has occupied space in every garage I’ve had since 1983) is the Hitachi turn-dial 13-inch television my parents gave us for our wedding. When the guys were loading the truck yesterday to haul all my stuff away, the television was on the chopping block. But when I saw it there on the floor, waiting its turn to be lugged away like all the other stuff, I caved and told them to leave it.

I couldn’t let it go, even though it’s just sitting there reminding me of what was. I don’t need it, I don’t use it, so why do I keep it around?

Maybe it’s because it’s more tangible than a photograph. Bruce used this television. Touched it, watched it, moved the antennae around. We watched the last episode of “M*A*S*H” on that television. I laid in his lap, I was very pregnant and very emotional, and cried the entire two hours. We watched “Shogun,” “Winds of War,” “East of Eden” (the movie that inspired us to name our baby Caleb if it was a boy), “Family Ties,” “Fridays,” and “Saturday Night Live.”

There was no remote. We had to get up and change the channel (I liked watching Bruce’s ass tucked inside his Wranglers or Levis as he walked to the TV and bent over to turn the knob), and we fell asleep watching “Rocky and Bullwinkle” cartoons on that TV the first few days of Carlene’s life. It’s the one functional thing I kept from our good life, our real life. I don’t want to let that go.

So what’s a little space in the garage? I’ll let Carlene go through the rest of the stuff. The television will stay where it is.

Maybe one day Courtney Love and I can discuss the merits of keeping an old television set in a garage. I’m sure she’d understand.

That's Not My Name and That's OK

I used to think walking was merely a way to get from point A to point B or to exercise. Sometimes both. When I’m alone, I’m plugged into my iPod. When I’m with a friend, we talk. A walk is a walk is a walk…until I walked with Claire.

The girl doesn’t know it, but she always knows exactly what to do and say to put things in perspective.

This morning we decided to walk uptown to the post office and library. She put on her Dora sneakers and tan jacket, and I surprised her with new purple mittens with hearts and rainbows I bought her on winter clearance. This made her very happy.

I put on my pink backpack loaded with the envelopes that needed to be mailed, my phone and some money since I was pretty sure I had library fines to reconcile. Claire put on her Dora backpack.

The weather was lovely – sunny and about 40 degrees when we started walking. Sidewalks are inconsistent for the first few blocks, so we cut down an alley to avoid street traffic. As we passed a garage, Claire asked, “Where’d my shadow go?”

“What, honey?” I asked.

She stopped. “My shadow, Grammy.”

Shadow? But of course! I haven’t thought about my shadow since I was a kid, except to maybe avoid looking at it when I was obese.

“It’s hidden by the garage,” I told her. “Let’s move back into the sunshine.”

“There it is! It’s big!” she said. “You have a big shadow, too, Grammy!” and she waved. “See my hand?”

I waved back with both hands. She giggled.

“I see your fingers in the shadow,” she said.

When we turned the corner we were back on a sidewalk and our shadows were in front of us. Claire hopped over each crack for the rest of the block, thrilled that her shadow kept up with her.

We got to a corner at which we had to cross a street. I was holding her hand and was just going to walk her across when it dawned on me that I could teach her how to properly cross a street.

“Always stop before walking out on to the street,” I said. “Look to your left. Do you see a car coming?”

Looking very concentrated, she peered down the street. “No,” she said seriously.

“Now look to your right. Any cars?”

“Nope.”

“OK, that means we can cross safely.”

We walked down a street I’ve walked for years, but I’d never really noticed that the Purinton’s house was blue or the rental next door had green trim until Claire pointed it out. Then she spied tiny purple flowers in the next yard.

“Oooo! Those are crocuses,” I told her.

“Crocheches,” she repeated. Close enough.

I wouldn’t have noticed them on an ordinary walk. I notice them in my own yard because I’m looking for them, but crocuses are even better when you’re not seeking them out and spectacular when you unexpectedly get to introduce them to a 2-year-old who loves the colors purple and green.

“I run real fast, Grammy!” and she took off. I kept up by walking more briskly, but it was fun to let her get to the next house a little before I did.

We were getting close to another corner and she took my hand. We stopped, she looked both ways, and we walked safely across.

We went to the post office first, which is next door to the library. I handed the envelopes to the mail clerk. Claire said, “I want to see,” so I lifted her up to sit on the counter.

“I like your mittens,” said the clerk. Claire’s shy and so she just smiled and looked down at the hearts and rainbows.

“Can she have a lollipop?” he whispered to me. I nodded.

“Would you like a lollipop?” he asked Claire.

“Yes,” she said rather boldly, and I thought, Yeah, I’ve always preferred candy over compliments, too.

She reached in the bag and pulled out a small chocolate flavored Tootsie-Pop. She’s definitely my granddaughter.

“What do you say?” I asked her.

“Thank you,” she said staring at her mittens again, but he heard her.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

She insisted I open the wrapper before we left the post office and I didn’t want her to bring it into the library, so we sat on a bench out front and she ate her lollipop.

“A black truck,” she pointed to the street. “That’s Papa’s truck.” Her dad’s dad is Papa and drives a pickup.

“No, that’s not Papa’s truck, but it looks like it,” I said.

“That’s a red car,” she continued and crunched her lollipop.

“Hear that?” she asked.

“That’s a blue jay,” I said.

“Blue jay,” she repeated and took another bite of her lollipop.

Watching Claire observe the world around her – the world I’ve very much taken for granted – this Ting-Tings song came into my head:

They call me girl
They call me Stacey
They call me her
They call me Jane


That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That’s not my name

They can call me Emily. They can call me Shawna. But that’s not my name. I’m Grammy. I’m Mom. I’m Lynn. I know who I am. I know how I lost weight. I could spend all kinds of money fighting these bogus websites illegally using my images only to find other sites doing the same thing. Or I can let it go and live in the world around me. My real world.

I have a shadow. The crocuses are blooming. I’m teaching Claire how to cross the street and what a blue jay sounds like. People can believe what they want about my images. I know what’s true. Nothing else matters.

(By the way, “That’s Not My Name” is a spiffy workout song.)

God Save The Queen

If I seem a little quiet lately, not as chatty, not posting on other people’s blogs as much as usual, it’s because March is a tough month. 27 years ago, March started out great with the birth of my daughter, then it quickly went down hill when my husband died 11 days later. Today’s his birthday, in fact. He’d have been 51.

It doesn’t help that right now I’m “Emily” and “Shawna” on bogus diet websites that use my before and after photos (and photos of my grandchildren!!) and a fabricated story that I used colon cleanses, resveritrol and acai berries to lose weight. You know and I know that isn’t true, but there are thousands of folks who see my before and after photos on those sites and think it’s really how I did it. And they’re getting ripped off because of it. Pardon my language, but this really pisses me off.

When I was a kid, I rarely stuck up for myself. I allowed people to say some pretty cruel things about me or my beliefs without me putting up much of a defense. I’d defend my friends, and when I had children, I was always their protector, but when it came to me, it was like I didn’t matter.

When I took on the task of losing weight, I never imagined so many inner demons would line up to fight to justify their existence in my life, and lately the more I meditate, the more I realize the ways I remain the queen of acquiescence.

The folks who stole my image to make a profit are no different than the boys who called me fat, the girls who threatened to not be my friend if I didn’t give them candy from my dad’s store, or even my ex-husband (not the one who died) who tossed me around a time or two. They are all bullies, and ignoring them – which was always the advice I got – didn’t make them go away.

It’s ironic that my weight is the crux of the issue with my cyber bullies, only the problem now is that it’s expensive to take on these bullies. Words – at least ones sent by me – aren’t enough. I had to hire an attorney to fight these jerks, but two of the sites are based in the UK and so my new BFF (or rather, bloke) will probably be an attorney in London who is an associate of my attorney in Pittsburgh. Helluva time to have gone to a cash-only budget, eh?

Most of us at some point have encountered bullies. I’m curious who yours are and how you handled them. Did your weight hold you back? Where do you find your confidence?

March sucks, and I’ll probably cry about this later tonight. I might even scream into my pillow. But know that I really appreciate you listening.

My Lentil Weekend

I wrote over on Lynn’s Weigh yesterday on Facebook (come join us over there!) that when I get a hankering for a particular food, I eat it to death over the course of a few weeks then forget about it for awhile. This weekend lentils sounded really good, so I dug out my favorite lentil soup recipe and tried a new lentil “burger” recipe. Thought I’d share them both with you.

I can’t remember where I got this soup recipe, so I apologize to whomever I lifted this from. I modified it a bit, but it’s not originally my recipe.

Lentil Vegetable Soup
Makes 6 2-cup servings

1 large onion, chopped
2-3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 t ground cumin
2 t chili powder
3 C veggie broth
1 C dried lentils (I sometimes use ½ C of lentils to make it more soupy)
1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes, undrained (fire-roasted is fabulous!)
1 can (8 oz) tomato sauce
1 can (4.5 oz) chopped green chilies, undrained
1 C frozen corn
2 medium carrots, chopped (about 2 cups)
2 small zucchini, diced (about 2 cups)

Spray a 3-quart saucepan with cooking spray and sauté onion, garlic, spices in a little veggie broth until veggies are soft. Add everything else, cover and simmer for 35-45 minutes, depending on how soft you like your lentils.

I modified a lentil meatball recipe that I found through Loser For Life Marisa’s blog. She originally got from In Jennie’s Kitchen. I made 8 patties rather than 18 meatballs and I’m using them like veggie burgers.

The original recipe is below with my modifications in parenthesis.

Lentil Ricotta Meatballs
Makes about 18

2 cups cooked lentils, pureed (I cooked them in vegetable broth rather than plain water)
2 large eggs, lightly beaten (1/2 C Egg Beaters)
2/3 cup plain breadcrumbs (I ground 2/3 C regular oatmeal)
1/2 cup fresh ricotta (I used low-fat ricotta)
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 1/2 teaspoon chopped parsley
Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste

Jennie’s cooking instructions: Add all ingredients to a deep bowl. Mix very well, using hands or a wooden spoon. Cover and refrigerate for two hours or overnight.

When ready to cook, shape mixture into 1 1/2-inch balls. Heat about 1/2-inch of oil in a nonstick skillet over medium flame. Add shaped “meatballs” and cook until browned all around, turning only once. Transfer to a paper towel-lined plate and let excess drain off. Add to simmering marinara sauce if serving immediately, or store in a tightly covered container up to three days.

Lynn’s burger instructions: Preheat oven to 375. Lightly spray a baking sheet. Add all ingredients in a bowl and mix well. Form into 8 patties (they will seem runny, but they’ll hold together, I promise) and place on baking sheet. Bake 20-30 minutes and flip them. Bake an additional 15-20 minutes or until they are brown.

Note: I didn’t cover and refrigerate for two hours, but I might try that next time if I’m not pressed for time. They turned out very nicely anyway. I’m having a leftover burger for lunch today so I’ll see how well they do in the fridge. I also put three in the freezer to see how they fare that way, too.

I’ll probably make them as meatballs at some point, too, and mix them with my homemade sauce and Shiratake noodles.

Forgive the short blog. The first Sunday of daylight savings is always a catch-up day. Why is losing an hour like losing a whole day? LOL

Thanking A 16-Year-Old Life Changer

Tomorrow is my oldest daughter’s birthday. She will be 27. I want to share an essay I wrote when she turned 16, and I’m posting it today because I will be in Pittsburgh tomorrow celebrating her birthday with her sister and the rest of the family. (Some of you may recognize this essay. I posted it on ZenBagLady several years ago.) While it’s 11 years later, my sentiments are the same. I love Carlene unconditionally, and I owe her my life. Happy birthday, honey.

Well, here you are, 16 years old today, and I can’t think of what to buy you to mark this crossroads birthday. Clothing will only wear out, jewelry will get tangled and forgotten, figurines will chip and end up on a table at a garage sale.

What do I get a girl who has changed my life so profoundly, expected nothing less than everything from me, taught me promises are not contingencies?

I thank God every day for you, that you came into my life when you did. After your dad died, you were my only reason to live. Our 1 a.m. feedings watching Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons, the dozens of car trips that first year to visit your grandparents singing “Apples and Bananas” and “Jelly Man Kelly” over and over to pass the time, waking to find you peeking out at me between the bars on your crib and playing peek-a-boo when I should have been getting ready for work.

These were not just distractions from sadness. Our life together has always been tightly bound by love and wonder.

I was overwhelmed by how protective my love could be the day you came home from first-grade and cried (which you rarely did) because the other girls in your class wouldn’t invite you to play with them during recess. It broke my heart to think no one would give you a chance – you, the most quiet and sweet girl I’d ever known. It’s why today I defend you against anyone who hurts you.

I know you don’t always understand the animosity I harbor for people who have caused you pain, especially the ones you have forgiven. Maybe someday when your daughter cries because someone pushed her down, called her a name, broke her heart or a promise, you’ll understand.

From the day you colored your walls red and told me you didn’t know where the crayon was, to the time you stood on top of the stairs, hands on your 3-year-old hips, and yelled, “Mommy, you piss me off!”, to the day you walked out the door with a boy on your arm and high heels on your feet and gave me a little wave from his car, I’ve watched in awe as you’ve grown up with the kind of conscience and self-awareness some people never find even if they live to be 100.

As each year passes, you peel back the secrets life holds – the freedom that comes from tying your own shoes and staying out past dark, and the knowledge that it’s OK to make mistakes or eat last night’s leftovers for breakfast.

Soon I will teach you to drive, which will be a far different experience then when I taught you to ride your bike. When I ran behind you while you rode, white-knuckled, on your two-wheeler, my hand only rested on the back of the seat but it made you think I was steadying the bike. You didn’t know you were doing all the work. You didn’t want me to let go, but you wanted me to let go. You saw ahead of you, with the wind blowing across your face, the freedom you wanted and feared. The decision was yours and after days of practice, you yelled “Let go!” and you sped up as I slowed down.

Now it’s me who sits at the junction of your emancipation and my desire to hang on to the familiar. I want to let go but I want to hang on, steady you with my guiding hand, make decisions for you. But as you’ve told me many times lately, you can think for yourself and you hate it when people treat you as though you can’t or don’t.

I promise I’ll try to never be one of those people.

I hope God lets your dad take a look at you every once in a while, during those times you’re singing or long-jumping or sleeping between your flannel sheets with the yellow blanket we wrapped you in when we took you home from the hospital.

It’s the least God could do for the man who was the first to hold you, sing to you, and rock you to sleep.

So happy birthday, honey. No gift I could give you could show you how glad I am you are my daughter. If there is a gift to be given it is from you, for without you these last 16 years, I would never have learned the meaning of unconditional love.

The Curious Case of Body Mass Index

Whether it’s before we start losing weight, in the process, or close to the end, we all ask the question, “Where is goal?”

For a lot of us, goal is a scale number that incorporates a BMI number of 25 or below since anything above 25 is considered overweight, right? But, as we’ve talked about before, BMI isn’t always an accurate indicator of health or healthy weight, especially – as I found out reading my blogging partner Barbara Berkeley’s latest blog on Refuse to Regain – for those of us who’ve been morbidly obese.

Here’s part of Barbara’s blog. To read it in its entirety, visit Refuse to Regain.

The patient in front of me is Mr. C, a 308-pound man who has been sent by one of my favorite referring doctors. This doctor truly cares about the health of his patients and it shows. In fact, Mr. C’s physician is a triathlete, eats for health and practices what he preaches. He’s never been overweight. His clients are devoted to him and Mr. C is no exception. But Mr. C. is worried. He genuinely wants to lose weight but the doctor he so much wants to please has told him that he needs to reach 170 pounds: the white or “healthy” zone of the BMI chart.

“Doc,” he says earnestly. “Is that possible? I’ve never been that light, not even in high school.”

Twenty years ago, the term BMI was part of the foreign language of doctors, a measurement that was recorded on the chart and remained obscure to patients. Today, nearly every dieter understands, (and sometimes obsesses about), his or her niche on the BMI chart.

…I have a somewhat different take on BMI. Yes, we know that weight gain impacts our health negatively. We know that even small amounts of weight gain put us at risk. But what happens once the horse is out of the barn? Once we have gained that weight, incurred that new risk, what then? Are the rules for “healthy” BMI the same after gain has occurred? This question brings us to a larger and more fascinating issue: Is there some permanent change that occurs within us once we have been overweight that changes those rules? I believe the answer is yes.

What I call POWs (previously overweight people) seem to be quite different from NOWs (never overweight people). As someone who was a NOW in my earlier years and is now a POW, I can attest to the fact that my physiology has changed. Can I prove this scientifically? No. We have now crossed over into the area of observation and opinion. Read on with that knowledge.

In my view, weight gain occurs when the normal mechanism that controls and stabilizes weight is damaged by over-exposure to elements of the SAD (standard American diet). Once the damage is done, I believe that we remain prone to weight gain. We can prevent this by avoiding the foods that caused the damage in the first place, but we must be extra careful. Most POWs cannot eat mindlessly anymore.

This tendency to weight regain may also have to do with fat cells which remain in the body, but which no longer contain fat. No one knows if depleted, empty cells signal the brain or cause other kinds of hormonal havoc. So what does this have to do with optimal BMI? When we gain weight, the body has to manufacture new fat cells to store the oily triglycerides which are being created. These cells are supported by a scaffolding of connective tissue and muscle. After weight loss, the fat cells are emptied, but some of the tissue may remain. Many POWs find that they simply cannot lose enough weight to reach the white area (or normal range) of the BMI chart. This may well be because the BMI chart is based on the weights of those who have never been heavy, in other words, the weights of NOWs. Since NOWs have never manufactured new fatty tissue, their baseline weights are lower.

I love what I do, but I have written before about the one part of my job I don’t enjoy. That would be the very last phase of a patient’s weight loss. Almost without exception, my patients are unhappy with their final weights. This happens even when they have lost 60, 80, or 150 pounds. Each one longs to get down “just a little more!” Each one feels like a failure for not reaching the white zone (of the BMI chart). This is the point at which BMI charts become tyrannical, and for no good reason. The rules for optimal BMI in the POW are different, just as pretty much everything else is different for POWs. Since there are no established guidelines for optimal weight in the POW, I can only offer my own take.

1. If you have been significantly overweight, a loss of 20% of your pounds is highly successful and is what I usually target. If you’ve lost more, great!!
2. Your optimal BMI should be the one at which you have eliminated or greatly minimized any weight related medical issues (especially blood pressure, diabetes, and lipids). In some people, remnants of the problem will remain, but the vast majority can expect significant improvement and decrease of medications.
3. Your optimal BMI should be one at which you can comfortably maintain.

Number three is probably the most important guideline, because weight loss is of no consequence if it ends in regain. POWs who push themselves to very low weights often do so at the expense of muscle tissue. If you start to look wasted, your vital muscle mass may be dissipating. At such low weights, and without muscle to help out with calorie burning, you will have to make do with what I call “two peas and a bean.” That’s not fun, that’s not life, and that’s not sustainable.

Shoot for maintenance, comfort, health, mobility. These will stand you in good stead whatever your BMI zone.

Avoiding the Perfect Boredom Storm, Here’s What I Learned This Weekend

It was just me and the puppies this weekend. It's not that I mind being alone, but on Friday I knew I faced the Perfect Boredom Storm if I didn’t have a strategy.

Two things were converging Friday morning: I had no plans or deadlines; and although the ice and snow sheets in my backyard are melting like Arctic glaciers, it’s still *expletive* winter and I couldn’t spend copious amounts of time outside.

Thankfully, the Perfect Boredom Storm didn’t have a chance to form. I had lunch with Fabulous Friend Pam who brought me a VitaTop to try (I was a Vita Anything virgin) and invited me to a book signing Saturday in Pittsburgh.

Getting out of town was exactly what I needed to do. Saturday was a great day of books and friendship and lunch and Whole Foods and g-baby Claire (Luca was sleeping) and a new appreciation for the longer days and the spectacular sun on the drive home.

Breaking it down into the top few things I learned and made me happy, this weekend, here’s my list:

1. No matter how comfortable the couch is and how little energy I have to leap and retrieve, do NOT allow Dog #1 to eat Dog #2’s rawhide after she’s already eaten her own. What results is stinky and green and runny and not easy to pick up with plastic grocery bags while I’m wearing oversized gloves. (I grabbed the first available gloves on top of the bin. Obviously not a good choice.)

2. It’s really busy at Whole Foods on Saturday. For a place that attracts health-conscious people, an awful lot of folks hold up traffic driving around the parking lot or stop and wait for long periods of time while shoppers unload their carts just so they can get a close parking spot. There’s a two-story parking ramp at the end of the Whole Foods parking lot, but the Land Rovers and Smart Cars just circle and circle and circle…

3. Pittsburghers really like Shirataki Noodles. Every time I go to Whole Foods, the few packages left are crammed in the back of the shelf, like there was a mass run on noodles. While I was bent over (because they’re on the bottom shelf) and digging around for both the linguine and spaghetti style noodles, a woman stood patiently next to me, waiting for her turn to scavenge. (I’ve yet to encounter rudeness at Whole Foods. I’m pretty sure you’d be asked to leave if you were rude.) Because she was patient (and I didn’t want to be kicked out), I only took three of the five remaining linguine noodles and four of the seven spaghetti. (Yes, I was going to buy them all.)

4. I really (emphasis on really) like deep-chocolate VitaTops. “Heat it up,” was Pam’s instruction when she tossed the plastic wrapped chocolate chunk on the table before lunch. Today, I heated it up and threw a ¼ cup of Breyer’s fat-free double-churned strawberry ice cream on top. Oh my. I enjoyed it very much (emphasis on very). Maybe too much. I’ve concluded that, like Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies, Vita stuff cannot occupy space in my freezer. I’ll store them at my daughter’s house 60 miles away and portion them out top by top, muffin by muffin, under her supervision.

Potential boredom turned into a contented happy this weekend. The only almost sad thing to happen was that I almost hit a robin while driving to Pittsburgh. Luckily he cleared my windshield before I crossed his path traveling 70 miles an hour. I’m sure killing a robin would bring on six more weeks of winter.

The purple finches are back at my backyard feeders, it will be almost 50 degrees tomorrow, and Helen Mirren is absolutely gorgeous at 65 (I’m watching the Oscars as I type). It was a good weekend.

The Art of Artichokes

Writing about artichokes – particularly how to eat them – is very difficult without sexual undertones, so please let this serve as a warning that this blog entry is PG13, perhaps R, depending on where your mind wanders.

I posted this several years ago on my former blog, ZenBagLady, but after buying four lovely artichokes at Trader Joe’s yesterday, I decided to republish it because I really, really love artichokes. And I don’t mean that in any other way other than I really do love artichokes. They’re probably my favorite veggie. (I say probably because I don’t want to offend broccoli, which comes in a close second.)

Artichokes are a very sensuous vegetable, and best eaten by candlelight. My husband introduced me to them 14 years ago, and when they’re in season, we eat them a few times a week. The process of eating them is like a spiritual ritual because they're way more than a vegetable. Artichokes are an experience like no other food.

The key is buying the right artichoke. You don’t want limp, withered leaves. Look for tight, firm globes. That’s a good indicator that there’s a lot of meat at the bottom of the leaves and in the heart.

Steam or simmer them, but be careful not to let the hearts turn to mush. (Click here for a pictorial of how to prepare artichokes from Simply Recipes.) The centers should be firm yet easily penetrated with a knife. Melt some butter in a bowl and pour balsamic vinegar in another. Set the artichokes and dips on the table, along with lots of napkins, and a fork and a knife and a plate.

Peel back an outer leaf. Dip the bottom in the butter and then the vinegar, then scrape it between your teeth. Repeat this process layer after layer after layer. There won’t be much meat on the outer leaves, but good things come to those who wait. Artichokes are a lesson in faith and patience. Faith that the heart is there under all the leaves and patience in knowing that getting to the heart is part of the fun.

As the leaves come off and your teeth scrape away each luscious layer, you’ll find the sweet spot – the heart, the place you’ll pledge your undying love for this awesome vegetable.



But like some medieval video game, before you can eat the heart, you must get past the choke – that fuzzy, dangerous layer. It’s astringent in the mouth and will stick in your throat like cat fur. Ingest it and I guarantee it will interrupt your artichoke experience. However, if you trim the choke just right by shaving it clean with your butter knife (sorry, there was no other way to word that), you’ll be rewarded with a heart so opulent and true it’ll make you weep.

Cut the heart into four or more pieces and dip each in the butter and then the vinegar. Chew slowly. Shut your eyes, even. Enjoy each succulent taste. Don’t rush it. Slow is best (remember patience).

And that, my friends, is how you eat an artichoke. (Just don't smoke a cigarette after eating one, although you might feel like it...just sayin'.)

fitbook™ Giveaway Winner!

I wish I had 32 fitbook™ journals to give to all of you entered to win. Thank you for sharing your journal philosophies. Congrats to reader Enz for winning this morning!

A blog is forthcoming, as soon as I get the morning sleepies out of my head. My body's been up for a few hours, but my mind is still asleep....zzzzzz....

(Giveaway Alert!) fitbook™ is Journaling…And You KNOW I’m All About Journaling

A few weeks ago, Lynn’s Weigh was part of the international Blog Your Heart Out Day to raise awareness of women’s heart health (see “Lady In Red, Do You Know Your Numbers?”) I was so encouraged to hear from many of you who either knew your numbers or went straight to your doctor and had a blood draw (that wasn’t so bad, was it?). Knowledge is power! Knowing your numbers can help keep your fitness goals on track.

So can the very spiffy fitbook™ (with a little “f”).

Leading the BYHO campaign is Angela Manzanares, founder of fitlosophy, inc., which makes the fitbook™. Angela asked if I’d take a look at the fitbook and if I liked it, give one away to one of Lynn’s Weigh’s readers.

I can wholeHEARTedly say that I don’t just like fitbook™. I love it! (And, no, I’m NOT paid to say that. In an earlier post I'd forgotten the word "not"! OOPS!)

Why I love fitbook™ so much is because it is exactly the kind of tool that fits with my own philosophy that journaling is key to weight loss and maintenance. You know I’m always harping at you about journaling: journaling thoughts and feelings about weight, journaling food intake, journaling exercise strategies and goals. Turns out I’m right! Research suggests that people who write down their goals are 75 percent more likely to achieve them.

Because there was no fitbook™ when I was starting out (and yes, I walked uphill both ways through the snow to school, too), I used blank journals, Word, a homemade spreadsheet, bar napkins, whatever it took to record my daily feelings/food/exercise.

To lessen that clutter, fitbook™ is a 12-week journal in which you establish goals and track your food and fitness strategies for achieving those goals. It is a square, flexible spiral-bound book with pages and pages of food logs, nutrient and fitness trackers. (Click here for a little demo.)

It’s compact so you can take it with you to the gym, and its vinyl cover cleans up easily. fitbook™ also comes with a pen, and there’s a pouch in the back to hold your membership card and/or $$ for an after workout smoothie (no trips to DQ!).

The fitbook™ costs $19.95 each or 4 for $75.95. The fitlosophy site also offers an e-newsletter and fitness tips through its website.

If you’d like to win a fitbook™, leave a comment or send me an email at lynnbering@verizon.net and tell me a little about your journaling efforts or intentions. I’ll announce a random winner on Friday!

Keep in mind, heart disease is the #1 killer of women. To learn more, go to Go Red For Women. I joined the site and found a ton of great info about heart health. If you’re on Facebook, become a fan by clicking Go Red For Women Fan Page.

And while you’re on FB, become a “fan” of Lynn’s Weigh! Click here to join our conversation.

To read fitlosophy’s press release about BYHO and learn more about the American Heart Association’s 12-week fitness and nutrition plan, click here.

See ya'll on Friday! Good luck!

To Lose Weight: Avoid Emotional Drama (at least I think so)

Have you ever read something that you think about for days, like a song that gets stuck in your head? All weekend I thought about one line from the cover story in this month’s Arthritis Today. It was like a hammer to the head – an AHA! moment – only I didn’t know why. I couldn’t immediately (and still can’t…thus this blog) connect it to the context my subconscious saw was there.

Sandy is a 50-year-old woman living with rheumatoid arthritis and fibromyalgia. I can only imagine the kind of pain she lives with, and yet she walks up to 5 miles on the beach every chance she gets. That’s inspirational to me in and of itself. But that’s not what dogged me all weekend. It was this line: By getting regular exercise, as well as closely monitoring her diet and avoiding emotional drama, Sandy says she’s been able to safely manage her RA and fibromyalgia.

The first two principals – exercise and diet – we all know in a yadda-yadda-yadda kind of way are keys to losing weight and keeping it off. But what about that third principal: “…avoiding emotional drama”? Yes, Sandy was talking about managing a disease, but I really believe emotional drama – both our own and other people’s – matters in how we lose and maintain weight.

Maybe ya’ll have already thought about this, so forgive me for being late to the party. I’ve just not put the two together in cognitive terms before. The rest of this blog is about the links I’m starting to see between emotional “drama” and weight.

Excess weight is its own emotional drama, right? Whether we feel ashamed or embarrassed about our bodies, or beat ourselves up when we fail, this lack of self acceptance fuels the gain-loss-gain cycle. Nothing like a little Ben & Jerry’s to ease the pain of self-flagellation or my personal favorite: “I can never change, so why bother?”

Avoiding emotional drama of excess weight doesn’t mean avoiding the issue of weight. It means swapping negative for positive dialogue and not engaging in “poor me.” The moment I start in with negative self-talk is the moment I want to dive head first into a box of Teddy Grahams. Recognizing the relationship between food and my emotions helped me adopt alternative coping mechanisms, like the question I ask myself when faced with a food dilemma: How will I feel five minutes after eating this?

That was the easy drama to dissect. The more complex and sticky drama is that which belongs to our family, friends and associates, and in how we engage in or move within that drama.

One of the things I realized this weekend is that when I engage in someone else’s drama, I avoid my own issues. I think this is why that line – “avoiding emotional drama” – struck such a cognitive chord. When I was finally ready to lose weight for the last time, I’d made myself a priority. To do that, I had to lose the emotional baggage of others. This is a fine line, though. You have to learn how to stop placing yourself in the center of someone else’s issues and listen from the outside and be compassionate from the outside rather than trying to always solve someone’s problem or, worse, think they’re problem is somehow about you when it’s not. That’s different, obviously, from the times when we have caused someone pain by our actions or lack of action.

Over the last five years, I’ve come to hate emotional drama. My friends and (some) family understand that. If I’ve done something that has hurt someone I love and I have no clue, I rely on them to tell me rather than ignore me. I spent years pacifying people and I don’t have the will or energy for it anymore. I’m learning to own my issues (whether I recognize them on my own or are brought up to me) and to separate other people’s issues from our own. Working out issues before they become emotional drama is worth it with those we love. It’s not easy by any means, but what’s most important to achieve in our lives is rarely easy.

So how does this all relate to weight loss and maintenance? For me: Teddy Grahams. Or mashed potatoes. Or stress (cortisol, anyone?). Or negative self talk. When emotional drama enters my life, it eventually shows up on the scale.

I’m doing pretty well with the diet and exercise principles in Sandy’s story. The “avoiding emotional drama” part is a little more tricky.

So….do you think emotional drama hinders weight loss and maintenance? Or am I totally off base on this?