"I did 'dit'!"

It started with, “Do you see that cleavage, Marge?” and ended with, “I’ll be walking up your fire escape in a minute!”

I volunteer for a non-profit agency that, among a lot of other things, runs a food pantry and soup kitchen, and prepares and delivers meals for Meals-On-Wheels (MOW). Hunger services is run out of a beautiful gothic church in the heart of an inner city neighborhood. I’ve been working there for three months, and what I’ve learned working in all three areas is more than anything I ever learned in college.

When I do a MOW route, I’m always a visitor, never a driver, because I get all turned around in the neighborhoods we service. Yesterday, I was teamed up with driver Deacon Smith, a retired postal worker, who’s been with MOW for 20 years. He’s the sweetest, most laid-back man I’ve met in a long time. Knows Route 3 like the back of his hand.

Our first stop was an apartment complex where two clients live. The instruction is that if we didn’t reach one in her apartment, she was likely at the other’s. When I rang the lobby buzzer for one and didn’t get an answer, I rang the buzzer for the other and was let in and got on the elevator.

Knock, knock, knock. “Meals On Wheels!” I said, in my sing-songy voice.

“Come on in! Door’s unlocked!” said the voice inside.

I walked in, and sitting at a table were two 80-something-year-old women in short-sleeved housecoats, drinking coffee and listening to music.

“Honey, just set those down here,” said the woman to my left.

I took the food out of my basket and cautioned them about the sweet potatoes wrapped in tin foil.

“They’re still pretty warm. Be careful when you pick them up.” I set my basket down and leaned over to take out their meals.

“Do you see that cleavage, Marge?” said the woman across from me.

I was wearing a grey t-shirt and a thin white jacket. It’s been unusually warm in Pittsburgh, so a winter coat isn’t warranted. My shirt wasn’t low cut by any means, but apparently when I leaned over…well…the Canal of Boobage was front and center.

“Make sure you’re not leaning over when you deliver meals to men!” the women advised. Embarrassed, I smiled and said I’d be careful.

And I was. The girls were tucked and out of sight the rest of the route.

Deacon and I talked about grandchildren and the craziness that is Pittsburgh’s streets during our route. On our last visit, the instruction on the clipboard was to call the client, who is wheelchair bound, and let him know we were there so he could throw down the keys to the front door. Deacon asked me if I would be OK with climbing the fire escape to deliver the client’s meal. I thought about it for a second and said, “Sure!” So I called the client and said something I’ve never said in my life: “I’ll be walking up your fire escape in a few minutes!”

While Deacon parked, I eyed the fire escape. It was steep and narrow and it reminded me of the steps outside the apartment I lived in when I weighed 300 pounds. It was on the top floor of a 19^th-century two-story building, which is more like the height of three stories today. The stairs were narrow and steep, and when I lived there, I had many anxious moments about the “what ifs” of those steps.

What if I got hurt and needed to be brought to the hospital in an ambulance? What if there was a fire and I needed help out? How would EMTs haul me down on a gurney? Would I fit in an ambulance? How would I escape the flames in a fire? Those thoughts haunted me. I know professionals are trained to handle these situations, but to be the source of someone’s potential physical distress really bothered me.

I got out of Deacon’s car with my basket and crossed the street. I looked up and saw the client opening the window at the top of the fire escape. I grabbed the handrail and started my ascent. But what I thought as I climbed was not what I thought I thought I’d think.

‘I’m climbing a fire escape! And I can!’

300-pound me hated the struggle with those apartment steps, and she was the one who said, “Enough!” on January 1, 2005, and began losing weight. She didn’t anymore want to experience that out-of-breath feeling from walking up a flight of narrow stairs. She no longer wanted to have to sit in a chair to catch her breath the second she walked in the door before carrying on with her life. She wanted walking up stairs to be as natural as…breathing.

At the top of the fire escape, I handed the client his meal and cautioned him about the sweet potato. He smiled and thanked me and I did a quick look down my shirt to make sure the girls weren’t exposed. They weren’t. Everything was properly copacetic.

When my 3-year-old grandson accomplishes something, he exclaims, “I did dit!” As I walked down the fire escape, I high-fived my 300-pound self. I did “dit”.

I got in Deacon’s car and we drove back to the church. I thought about my goal anniversary the day before (March 12, 2007) and the fleeting moments of movement I’ve taken for granted since reaching goal: taking the stairs in a parking garage rather than the elevator, walking the dog around the block, putting my bike on the bike rack, taking my bike off the bike rack, standing for an hour cutting vegetables for dinner. As I lost weight, I stayed focused on the big stuff: Can I walk 6, 10, 20 miles? Can I bike 15, 20 miles? Can I crank the elliptical to high for 30 minutes?

I’d lost sight of the little things. Walking, climbing stairs, standing… things that hurt before but don’t anymore.

What I realize is, how cool is it to change the way you eat and move for no other reason than to eventually climb stairs without feeling depleted? What an honorable goal! I admire folks who want to lose weight to climb mountains and run for hours. I sincerely do. But if you can climb stairs and walk around the block? Man…you did “dit.” 

Blackbird Revisited

This blog is dedicated to my oldest daughter, who turns 29 tomorrow. I, of course, am still 29 *grin*

You were 16, I think, the day you told me I was your best friend.

“Well, thank you, honey,” I replied.

“But…” I continued, taking a few seconds to prepare for your response. “…you’re not my friend.”

You did what I thought you’d do. You gave me that look. You know the one where you lower your chin and scrunch up your eyebrows and blow out a sharp, short breath through your nose? No one does that look like you do.

“I don’t tell my friends when to come home at night," I explained, "and I don’t ground them when they’ve done something wrong. I don’t buy them food or wash their clothes, either. I’m glad you think of me as a friend, but I’d rather be your mom.”

Thirteen years later, I’m still your mom. But a funny thing happened on the way to this eve of your 29^th birthday.

You became my friend.

Remember the time we drove home from D.C. via I-68 because your sister and you had never been to West Virginia? We sang Chrissie Hynde songs and talked and laughed and didn’t notice we were climbing a mountain, even though our ears were popping. That’s how this daughterfriend thing developed: slowly and steadily, year after year, built unassumingly on the foundation of the amazingality that is you. (I made up a word for you for your birthday! Don’t worry, though, there’s another gift *grin*)

You’ve always spoken with the wisdom of someone older, no matter your age. This has served our relationship well.

As you know, I was not trained to speak my truth as I grew up, so I was always a little intimidated and awed when you did.

Something I did made no sense to you when you were 3 years old, and when you ran up the stairs yelling, “Mommy! You piss me off!” I was stunned. But I smiled and shook my head and thought, ‘I’m doing something right.’

Then there was the time when you were 10 and your stepfather and I had a fight on the phone. After I hung up, I smacked the phone into the cradle until it broke. I probably swore some, too. You walked up to me and (speaking for your sister as well) said calmly, “Mom, when you get mad and yell like that, it scares us.”

That simple statement of fact, and the calmly passionate way in which you said it, gave rise to one of the greatest challenges of my life. I may not always hold my tongue, but your words started me on a path to a greater awareness of my expression of anger.

I know you aren’t comfortable defending yourself to others who have wronged you, and so your voice of truth is often limited to our family. However, rather than seek revenge, you plot forgiveness. That is a gift from your father, whom you’ve never known, but are. When someone asks me to describe your father, I tell them, “He was a lot like Carlene.” Anyone who believes nurture determines a child’s destiny hasn’t watched you grow up within the nature of your father. I nurtured you, but you are not me. At least, not the restless, wandering, quick-tempered me.

You at age 29 are far different than me at 29. When I turned 29, you were 9 and your sister was 7. I’d been married three times and was dating someone seven years younger than me. On my 29^th birthday, I got a tattoo.

You have a clean marital record and no tattoos. (Not that there’s anything wrong with tattoos. But there was that tongue piercing you got that I never understood. Seemed like something I’d do, not something you’d do.)

You’re with a man I couldn’t have handpicked any better. You also inherited your great-grandmother’s table, buffet and dishes much sooner than I did because you didn’t spend years drifting from apartment to apartment. Nice dishes and buffets require commitment, and – as you know – that’s never my strong suit, but it’s something I admire in you.

I don’t write these things with regret. I wouldn’t change the path I chose. Like you, I chose what suited me. Your path suits your laid back demeanor, as mine suits my uncertainty. Where I am impulsive, you are contemplative. Where I am quick to anger, you are cautiously optimistic. I love to compete; you love to knit. I have blue eyes and yours are brown. I wouldn’t wish it any other way.

When you left home, I slowly let go, much the same way I did when I taught you to ride your bike. You rode, white-knuckled as I ran alongside, my hand resting on the back of the seat. You thought I was keeping you steady, but you were doing all the work. You didn’t want me to let go, but you wanted me to let go. You saw what was ahead, 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.

But as you pedaled off, you didn't leave me behind.

In the years since you’ve become an adult, you’ve talked me down and talked me up. We’ve shared millions of words over gallons of coffee and wine. We’ve rolled our eyes and cried over copious amounts of breakfast foods and salads. You helped me through my greatest physical pain (and I’m not talking the 13 hours of labor I went through to birth you), and I trusted you implicitly when you said, “It will be OK, Mommy.”

Thank you for helping me make lefse, even though you don’t like it much. Thank you for staying open minded when I haven’t always made the best decisions. You and your sister are my favorite people in the whole world.

Happy birthday, my daughterfriend, my snarksister, my confidant, my go-to. I love you more than you can ever know.  

(To read the original “Blackbird Fly” column I wrote in 2001, click here.)

Hello Bike Path!

This morning, I took one helluva test in Medical Nutrition Therapy. 100 points. Math was involved. Yuck. And it was timed. Afterwards, I was shaking and second guessing myself. ‘Dammmit, I should have answered that question another way. Wait…was she asking about PPN or TPN? Ugh! I’m stupid. I’ll never pass.’

It was 60-something degrees outside. Sunny, but a bit windy…25 mph gusts. I’d been up studying since 6 a.m. I watched the sun rise, I checked the weather a million times on my phone, and I thought about Bike. I’ve been eyeing her every time I pull in my garage the last few weeks, wondering if she misses me as much as I miss her. Bike needs a tune up, no doubt. But did she have enough oomph from last year to get me through a late winter ride?

Hmmmm…..

My mind was making me nuts. I had to get OUT of the house, and the only place to go that made sense was the Butler-Freeport Community Trail:  21 miles of personal peace. I worked out a whole lot of arthritis angst there last year. It was the place I said no to sciatica and yes to my thighs when they said, ‘Are you sure?’ while pedaling up a 2-mile incline along the outer edge of a gun range.  

I had to go there. So I slathered Vaseline on my face to protect it from the wind, and dressed in two layers of shirts, a jacket, leggings, and tennis shoes. I backed the car out of the garage and loaded up my bike on the rack. I felt strong and in control, even though it had been five months since I’d engaged in the bungee cords and straps ritual.

My body felt good hugged in form-fitting clothes. The snugness reminded me that I had one. A body, that is. It wasn’t lost in the perpetual layers of winter. And while I’ve gained 20 pounds since my lowest weight, my body feels stronger than it did at 125 pounds. I’m no longer afraid I’ll break. I felt so fragile back then.

With the sunroof open and the tunes cranked, I drove to the trailhead, wondering if I’d be the only car in the parking lot. I didn’t think so, but since I didn’t know the answer to question 17 of my MNT test, I figured what the heck did I know about anything?

But when I pulled into the lot, I discovered several people felt the same way I did. 

Fortunately, Creepy House Owner, who lives in the house at the entrance of the parking lot, was not outside. (For more info on him, read “ItSeemed Like A Good Idea: The Best Worst Bike Ride Ever.” More on him later.)

I took my bike off the rack and examined it. It was encrusted in last year’s mud and I wondered if it would carry me for the simple 40 minute ride I had in mind. I’d pumped up the tires before I left, and I had a tube and tire levers in my pack along with a pump attached under my seat, but it had been a year since I learned how to use them. What if I got a flat?

I stood there with my right hand on the saddle and my left hand on the left handle bar. The sun was warming my back, the air smelled so spring-like, and…ahhh!! I figured I’d walk the damn bike back if I had to. Nothing was going to stop me from riding. I had to. It was calling me. It’s like my body and the weather and the trail were a holy trinity offering salvation. Not riding was not an option.

I hopped on Bike my favorite way: with my left foot on the pedal and my right leg swinging over the seat like it was the back of a horse.

Hello picnic table! Hello campsite across the creek! Hello shelter that kept me and another biker I’d never met before and haven’t seen since dry in a torrential thunderstorm last year!

Hello ice and mud and the bug that just flew into my eye! Hello rapids!

Hello really tall bridge across Route 28 whose foundations are built like the legs of the Empire’s Imperial Walkers and scare me every time I ride under them!

Hello mile markers that remind me how far I’ve gone and challenge me to decide how far I’ll go! Hello Monroe Road that I pedal like hell across because people drive around the bend like they’re racing in the Daytona 500! Hello couple walking their dog off leash! Not cool, by the way!

Hello wind and sun and 65 degrees! Hello faint smell of woodsy western Pennsylvania! You’ll be in full smell soon.

I rode 20 minutes and turned around. While I wanted to go further, I knew my body and Bike needed time to "tune up" into the regular summer rides. I loaded my bike on the rack and drove home in the closest thing to a perfect state of mind I could achieve: Whatever happens, happens. School, weight, relationships, life. I'll figure it out. Maybe not on the trail right now. After all, it’s early. It will rain and it will not doubt snow. But I rode Bike in western Pennsylvania on March 7, 2012 with no repercussion or consequence other than a lot of mud sprayed on my backside.

Bike will be going in for a tune-up next week. She deserves it and needs it. We have a lot of stuff to figure out this year!

“Hotdogs, cheeseburgers, pizza sticks, cheese burritos, chicken fingers, fish sticks…”

Food.

Is there a subject more complex or convoluted? Politics, religion, the differences between the sexes…those subject’s got nothin’ on food.

We need food to survive. Of course. But it’s not like we can take a pill of food in the morning like a birth-control pill and hope it works. Food demands our attention. And it has some people’s attention more than others (people such as me, a confessed foodie).

We love some food and we hate some food, but there’s never a consensus. We defend the foods we love like they were some kind of holy grail. I’ve listened to people argue over barbecue sauce recipes, for cryin’ out loud! That’s not love. That’s obsession.

There are times we cook food and times we grab food. At our most determined, we plan and implement a diet plan, and when that determination wanes, we drive through McDonald’s. We seek the magical comfort of mashed potatoes while standing firm in the face of cheesecake. We are conflicted.

When it comes to food, we all have choices. All of us, that is, except for the little ones. Those folks who are too young for debit cards, too young to voice their opinion (except to put their hands in front of their mouths in protest), and who rely on us…adults…to make the best food choices we can for them.

Meet Jessica. Jess is a 27-year-old mother to 11-month-old Sarah. Sarah attends a Class A daycare in Louisiana while Jess and her husband, Mark, work. Until now, Jess has provided the daycare facility with all of Sarah’s foods: breast milk and baby food.

Now that Sarah is ready for “table” food, the daycare insists she eat what they provide. In fact, the government requires that Sarah’s lunch be delivered via the daycare. No home food is allowed without a doctor’s note. The problem is that Jessica isn’t real happy with the daycare’s food choices. It’s not that Jess is a picky, hard-to-please helicopter parent. Not at all. Jess is simply a food-conscious woman who wants her child to have every advantage of healthy, wholesome foods.

And to Jess, hotdogs, cheeseburgers, pizza sticks, cheese burritos, chicken fingers and fish sticks are not healthy, wholesome foods.

You know I agree.

Anyone who has lost weight and is maintaining their weight probably didn’t get to weight loss and maintenance by eating a lot of hotdogs, cheeseburgers, pizza sticks, cheese burritos, chicken fingers, or fish sticks. But I’d be willing to bet they got there (raising my hand!) by eating hotdogs, cheeseburgers, pizza sticks, cheese burritos, chicken fingers, and fish sticks. Frequently.

Our Standard American Diet of fat and simple carbs is flat out wrong. We know this. And yet, it is perpetuated in our schools while we sit around scratching our heads wondering why we have an obesity epidemic!

Shame. On. Us.

Shame on school districts. And more appropriately (despite Michelle Obama’s efforts), shame on our government for sanctioning this disease-by-food policy.

I invite you to read Jessica’s blog, “The Healthy Conundrum.” Parents, foodies, weight losers, weight maintainers… please post your comments there as well as here. I look forward to the conversation.