Pulling Back The Sheets: Intimacy and Body Image

It’s not easy to talk about, this most intimate of subjects, but I know sex and body image is something many of us deal with on some level, despite our body size. We can wear clothes that flatter, cover, disguise, hide, tuck in, suck in, boost and separate. But stripped down, bare and naked, the truth is beheld by a beholder, someone who isn’t us, and the myriad emotions associated with that most intimate moment is the topic of today’s blog. It’s rated PG, I assure you, but I thought I owed you all a note of warning.

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Two-year-old grandbaby Mae loves to be naked. She’ll strip down whenever the mood strikes and run around the house yelling, “Nakee! Nakee!”

“Nakee” and alone, I’m better than I used to be. For the most part, I accept (or at least live with or just ignore) the sags, bags, wrinkles, and rolls (as I wrote about in last year’s post, “How Blake Shelton Helped Me Take My Clothes Off.”)

“Nakee” and not alone? Well…let’s just say I’m not as comfortable as Mae.

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, how does that translate for us – as people of varying weights and body issues – when we are the beheld and the beholder is our beloved or beloved-wannabe? Because at the heart of that “beauty…” sentiment is trust. Trust that when we are told that our bodies are beautiful just as they are, the person saying it believes it.

I remember when I reached goal six years ago, I was at a picnic with my then-husband, Larry. A male neighbor asked him what it was like to be with a “completely different woman” in bed. Without missing a beat, Larry said, “She’s the same beautiful woman I’ve always known.”

I was disgusted by the man’s question, but I was more surprised by my reaction to my husband’s response. Larry had always told me I was beautiful, no matter what I weighed. He loved me, literally, through thick and thin. But it was at that moment that I realized I never trusted Larry’s, or any man’s, words of beauty and admiration in the realm of intimacy. Why? Because to me, I was not beautiful, not in bed anyway. And if my truth was that my body was not beautiful, then – in my mind – that was every man’s truth, despite what they said to the contrary.

My sexual repertoire – at all my weights – has included remaining semi-clothed or having sheets or blankets strategically wrapped around me, and employing carefully choreographed maneuvers to keep body parts from being exposed or displayed in unflattering ways. The reasoning behind this routine comes from years of negative self-dialogue and a subconscious buy-in to the impossible societal definitions of beauty. That I believe that my body, in its natural state, is better enjoyed covered up and not in the naked open is so deeply ingrained in my head that it’s become as much my truth as the fact that I have blue eyes.

Since starting my meditation practice several years ago, my mind has been on a journey of truth. Emotions I thought I had under wraps sometimes swim to the surface and demand to be felt at seemingly inopportune moments, and trying to stop them is like telling a swimmer to keep holding her breathe when she comes up for air. They need to breathe. NOW.

The most powerful NOW moment to-date happened a few months ago when I was dating The Irishman. All he did was whisper, “You’re beautiful,” and in that moment, what I thought and felt down to my very core was, ‘Wow, he has really bad taste in women. I’m so gross, can’t he SEE that?’

It was such an overwhelmingly sad and empty feeling, it made me cry. It was like someone unearthed my 500-thread-count-sheet-wrapped body and put it on display in a museum next to a placard that read, “A 21^st-century example of a woman who never liked her naked body.”

Words tumbled out my mouth as I bawled and told him about my life-long struggle to accept my body. He kept stroking my hair and, when I calmed down, said, simply, “I know. I see you struggle with it every time we’re together. But I think you’re beautiful.”

And here I thought no one ever noticed my strategic maneuvers. Hmmm….

So how do you hear, believe, trust and accept another’s truth about your body when your own view of your body is less than stellar or even polar opposite of our beholder’s? How do you pull back the sheet, even a little, and welcome their truth and meet intimacy with no body image barriers?

Weight loss and weight maintenance envelop our entire lives, including our sex lives. I just don’t see it discussed much in the blog-o-sphere. I know it’s because this isn’t an easy subject to discuss in public, and anyone who reveals they have sex at all is subject to criticism from any number of ideological bents. But if you struggle with this, too, or if you’ve figured it out (or if it’s never been an issue….and bravo to you for that!!) and you’d like to share, leave a comment. No judgment from me, but I do ask that you keep it PG. Thanks!

Think Of It As Your Job

My first real job – one that took taxes out of my paycheck – was at a nursing home kitchen. I’d just turned 16 and had been a candy striper there for two years. I worked 16-20 hours a week and had to wear a hair net and a white apron, but so did the cute boys working there, so I didn’t feel too awkward. I learned to search trays for lost dentures and how to pitch mashed potato balls at someone using the braided hose by the garbage disposal as a bat. It was horribly messy, but it was F-U-N fun. Well, until our boss found out.

I was no stranger to work. My dad owned a grocery store and I worked there from ages 8 to 15, candling eggs, bagging potatoes, delivering groceries, stocking shelves, and running the cash register. I also mowed lawns, shoveled snow, babysat, cleaned houses – anything to keep me in the latest Elton John record.

Fast forward...oh…a lot of years. I’ve been in school since fall 2011, learning what I can about nutrition. My goal is to counsel folks who maybe want to lose some weight, ease inflammation, or control their diabetes. I want to work with them, listen to their concerns, give them guidance and a kick in the butt if needed, and to motivate them to do their best. I’m really looking forward to getting back to work, not because I need an Elton John record (although I could use some extra dough to pay for my Pandora and Sirius radio subscriptions), but mostly because I’m itching to help even one person feel better.

Before that happens, though, I need to fix this: 

As you know, the old knee’s been going out frequently since March and so it’s finally time for a new one. After denying this fact for weeks, I finally scheduled surgery for September 11. I gave it three months for a number of reasons, one being I turn 50 in August and I wanted to get through the remaining days of my 40s with my original body parts. You see, when I was 18, a doctor told me I’d be in a wheelchair by the time I was 40 because my knees would be so deteriorated. Not only did I get 10 more years out of the old girls, only the right one needs to be replaced in the near future, thanks to the debridement surgery on my left knee (and a surgeon who believed in my ability to rehab fully) three years ago. 

I also delayed surgery so I can have time to get my body as strong as possible and be in the best shape nutritionally in order to have the best possible outcome. My surgeon was all for this and wrote me a script for physical therapy. And for physical therapy, there is no one I trust more than Seth.

Seth has seen me through rehab on both of my shouldersand my left knee. He’s not only knowledgeable, he is a teacher, an incredible cheerleader, and has a way of making me laugh, even when I’m hating on him for making me work so dang hard. Given how resistant to (and, I admit, afraid of) this surgery I am, Seth is the only person who can instill the kind of confidence I’ll need to see me through this.

Here we are, me hooked up to the neuromuscular e-stim machine and Seth working the controls and explaining what it does:

Last week, I got a script for the brace Seth recommended called a Playmaker. After my knee went out on the bike trail six weeks ago, I thought all cardio exercise would be off limits since my knee slipped so much. I put this baby on and it’s like my knee is almost normal. I can work out on the stationary bike, and yesterday, I did 10 minutes on the elliptical without any pain. Zero. So…maybe…hmmmm…I don’t need surgery….

Two hours later, I climbed the stairs of my house without the brace. Pain. It’s real. That brace ain’t fairy dust. It’s a tool to help me get by for the next three months. I need a new knee. And I am – seriously – grateful that this technology is available. If I’d been born 100 years earlier, I would have had to suck up the pain; accept it as my destiny. Now, as Seth reminds me, surgery and a few months of rehab is a drop in the bucket of life. A blip.

I am eternally grateful for the people I’ve met here and on Facebook who have either had a knee replacement or knew someone who did. The support and advice have been as essential as Seth’s “prehab” program. I’m especially thankful for the several real-life stories of folks whose lives have improved exponentially after surgery, namely another Lynn who, after having surgery, ran her first 5K four months post-op. I told Seth about her and he said: “You need a goal, especially for those days you’ll be Christmas shopping and your knee is hurting and you’re wondering, ‘Why did I do this?’”

We talked about options. I told him I’ve always wanted to go snow shoeing, but because of my right knee, I couldn’t.

“Make that a goal for January,” he said. “And what about the Pittsburgh Marathon? How about in May 2014, you walk the half?”

I called my daughter, P’burgh M’thon expert Cassie.

“You gotta train,” she said. “Do some 5Ks and a 10K first. You don’t want to be swept up.”

I Googled “marathon sweep up” and hell to the NO! I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for the sweep bus! I’ll focus my goals on snow shoeing and a 10K. I’ll know later if the half is attainable.

 

Seth told me to think of this prehab and surgery and rehab as a job. And what did I say I want from my future job? To help even one person to feel better.

So I’ll practice on myself. Right now, that one person is me.

Lift…hold 5 seconds…release. Repeat 30 times. Roll over. Lift…hold 5 seconds…release. Repeat 30 times. Roll over…. Both legs. Calf lifts, band walking, cardio. Oh, and upper body and core, too.

“Yes, boss…I mean, Seth.” (And thank you!)

Happy 32nd Anniversary to Me! (A Graduation Tale)

My niece graduated from high school last Friday. So did my nephew’s son and a lot of my friends’ children. What will they remember of that day? The valedictorian’s speech? I doubt it. The number of bobby pins they used to secure their cardboard hats? Possibly. Or will it be what they did afterwards, in the hours following the ceremony, that they’ll keep with them in their hearts?

Most people think of the day they graduated from high school as the anniversary of the day they graduated from high school. I always remember my graduation day – June 4, 1981 – as the anniversary of the day I slept with Clayton Johnson.

Allow me to explain.

I moved to the suburbs of Minneapolis halfway through 9^thgrade. I was a small-town girl with small-town clothes and a small-town haircut. I was the Queen of Geek, a princess in the land of Everyone Who’s No One. Every day, my stomach ached. I dreaded every class because I’d been dropped halfway into a subject I knew nothing about. I my small town, I took Earth Science. In the suburbs, I was in chemistry. In my small town, I took Civics. In the suburbs, I was in Economics. In my small town I was one of two flute players in the band. In the suburbs, I was last chair, and several of the girls ahead of me were in a Twin Cities youth symphony. In my small town, I was in home ec. In the suburbs, I was the only girl in shop class because home ec was full. When the counseling center had us take a career exploration test, I had only one result: barge loader.

Talk about a blow to the psyche.

I loved gym class in my small town. I’d left in the middle of volleyball. In the suburbs, we were learning ballroom dancing. It was bad enough that I didn’t know any of the boys in my class, worse that one of the two boys left who could be my partner had bad breath and stared at my chest. The other boy – a tall, handsome blond – was being begged by a tall, beautiful blond girl to be her partner. Divine intervention is the only way I can explain how he looked over at me, assessed my predicament, and left the tall, beautiful girl and asked if I’d be his partner.

“Sure,” was all I managed to say. His name was Clayton (not Clay) and together we learned the waltz, the polka, and the Texas two-step over the course of the two-week dancing unit.

We didn’t become friends, exactly. For the next four years, we said hello and exchanged sterile pleasantries every time we passed each other in the hallway, and we had a math class together in which he borrowed a pencil. We signed each other’s year books every year, always mentioning how much we each enjoyed each other’s “sweet smile.”

For four years I pined, quietly and from afar, until graduation night. Everyone who was anyone (and didn’t have a date with their parents) was going to Greg M’s house for a party. And I mean EVERYONE. There were at least 300 people in and around Greg’s parents’ suburban house, and the beer was flowing. It wasn’t long before the paddy wagons showed up and kids scattered in all directions. I’d not had anything to drink (the line was too long and I’d shown up late), but I didn’t want to get swept up in the bust, so I, too, ran towards my red Mustang parked on a side street near Northwood Park. Of all the people at the party, Clayton was there, too, running next to me down the sidewalk

“Need a ride?” I asked.

“Yes!” he laughed.

We got in my car and drove up Boone Avenue, past the cops and the mayhem. Clayton said he was spending the night with a few of his friends in the woods in what is now a very large shopping development. At the time, a mile from my house, it was the edge of the northwest suburbs of Minneapolis. There was still a lot of natural real estate between Plymouth and Maple Grove back in the early ‘80s.

“Wanna join us?” he asked.

It’s the first time I remember being truly spontaneous all by myself, without the company and encouragement of a cluster of friends. When I left graduation, I was a pack of one, with no other plans than to drink beer at a party with people I’d probably never see again. Or at least, most of them. (Of course, along came Facebook, and many of those people are back in my life, at least virtually.) But fate changed that. Tall, blond, kind Clayton Johnson was asking me to stay overnight in a make-shift camp in the woods. No thought AT ALL went into my response.

“Sure!”

We drove to the woods, parked the car, and walked about a quarter mile in the dark (Clayton held my hand) to a clearing in which three other guys I recognized, and might have talked to once or twice during my high school career, had built a fire and laid out four sleeping bags. They had some beer, a boom box, a few cigars, and a deck of cards. They greeted me like I was expected and I proceeded to spend the night drinking, gambling, and laughing with four boys I didn’t know well, but whom my gut knew I could trust. I shared a sleeping bag with Clayton, fully clothed, and he kissed me a few times before we fell asleep. When the sun came up, I slipped out of the sleeping bag without waking Clayton, walked back through the woods, and drove home. My mother took a photo of me standing next to my Mustang, disheveled, but so very happy. I never saw Clayton again, but I can’t imagine a better way or a better person with whom to jump-start my adult life.

Not sure too many parents want to share this story with their recent graduates, but my hope is that the recent graduates I know and love will trust themselves and forge ahead with their dreams without too much consultation from the naysayers. You don’t have to spend the night in the woods with a boy you danced with in 9^th grade gym class, but I do hope you begin your emancipation with fun and high hopes.

AIM: Road Maintenance

“Road maintenance” kicks in any time I spend a night away from home. I might not be on a true vacation, as in several days in a far-away place, just a night or two at my daughter’s house or a friend’s house. But whenever I’m away from my own refrigerator and pantry, I need to take the familiar with me. Otherwise? Yeah… Too much white stuff and “I’m-hungry-I’ll-eat-anything” foods get consumed.

Eating the way I do feels safe to me. It’s comforting to know I don’t have to reinvent my diet every day. I know what I like and don’t like; and I know how certain foods will make me feel physically and emotionally, so I make my decisions based on those factors.

Traveling started getting complicated, but for good reasons, when I got to goal in 2007. My first trip away from home was a 10-day road trip to Minnesota. I opted to drive, in part, because no airline would let me take “my” food on board. You know, fish, soup, low-fat cheese, spinach. Driving meant I could pack a cooler (albeit, I packed like there were no grocery stores west of the Ohio border).

I’ve also learned to choose carefully at hotel complimentary breakfast buffets. A small yogurt,  hard-boiled eggs whites, coffee, whatever fruit they have (usually mushy apples or under ripe bananas), and maybe cereal, like plain oatmeal or Total Raisin Bran, sans the raisins (not a fan), with skim milk.

Small trips matter, too. Like when I lived in Clarion and would visit my daughter in Pittsburgh, I’d  pack a little cooler of food, usually leftovers from the night before. Cassie once said, “I love how you have the most random cooler food.”

Ah, that’s the beauty of a well-executed menu. It seems random and laid back, but really it’s carefully – nay, painfully– planned hours, even days in advance.

Which brings me to my love/hate relationship with my food plan.

I love it because having a plan takes away the guess work, and I know at the end of the day that I’ve eaten enough to satisfy both my nutritional and “comfort” needs. I hate it because it’s time consuming and a pain in the butt when I’m going out of town.

Whether it’s a day in Pittsburgh or a week in Minnesota, planning what I’ll pack to eat gives me an eye tick. While I don’t eat it (or at least often), I understand the appeal of fast food and pre-packaged meals. How much easier it would be to drive through McDs for a crappy salad – even with all its sodium and low-nutritional content – than pack my own salad, dressing, bowl, fork, and napkin when I’m going on a picnic.

Alas, easier isn’t usually healthier, and because eating healthy is a priority, I plan (and sometimes b!tch a little). Even if I’m going on a hike, I plan. I’ll write my menu on a sticky note: “Bring water, apple, almonds, Hershey Kiss.” Yes, I plan right down to the Hershey Kiss!

Once, on a trip to Chicago, I reserved a hotel room that had a microwave. Early in the morning, before I left, I made Hearty Lentil Spaghetti and roasted broccoli to reheat for dinner. I also packed hummus, salsa, salad and sandwich stuff (including Miracle Whip Lite, pickles, lettuce, tomatoes, spicy brown mustard), carrots, string cheese, shredded squash, eggs….good lord, you name it, I packed it!

I allow for treats and special meals while on the road, keeping in mind, as I said before, the types of foods that make me feel miserable after eating them. Take, for instance, on that 10-day trip to Minnesota, I went to the Original Pancake House with my daughters, son-in-law, grandbaby, and niece. I ordered an egg-white omelet with spinach, mushrooms, and tomatoes (no cheese) and asked the server to ask the cooks to use no or very little oil to cook it. The omelet was p-e-r-f-e-c-t. I coupled it with an English muffin and some fruit…I was in heaven. I also took a few bites of my daughter’s pancake (OPH syrup is really quite yummy) and my other daughter’s hash browns. It’s the simple indulgences that matter most to me.

At dinner with a friend, later in the week, I ordered the grilled asparagus with parsley oil and Parmesan cheese, and a spinach salad. I ate half a slice of bread smothered in brie and thought I’d died and gone to food heaven.

Sometimes on the road, I’ll have something “special,” like a Rice Krispy bar and a coffee with half-and-half. It’s always fabulous because it’s exactly the kind of vacation indulgence I want. I don't feel guilty. Never occurs to me to feel guilty. I feel…normal. And normal is good.

We all have to decide for ourselves how to navigate our food journeys, especially when we’re on vaca. If you feel like eating a pancake or an omelet or whatever, let your conscience be your guide. How will you feel about eating it or not eating it? How will you feel afterwards? These are questions only YOU can answer for yourself.

I’m always glad to be home, back to my own kitchen and my own routine. After all, vacation – whether it’s one or 14 days – is like a pancake or Rice Krispy bar. They’re nice once in a while, but getting back to “real life” and real eating is always a relief.

AIM: Adventures in Maintenance is Lynn, Lori, Debby, Shelley, and Cammy, former weight-loss bloggers who now write about life in maintenance. We formed AIM to work together to turn up the volume on the issues facing people in weight maintenance. We publish a post on the same topic on the first Monday of each month. Let us know if there is a topic you'd like us to address!

Lori @ Finding Radiance

Debbie @ debby weighs in

Shelley @ My Journey to Fit

Cammy @ The Tippy Toe Diet

Just a quick note to my readers: I am taking a hiatus from Lynn’s Weigh (the blog, not Facebook) for a few weeks (maybe a month or more?) as I get serious about finishing my assignments and preparing for my final exam. I’ll post when I can, but in the meantime, I’ll be reading your blogs. If you’d like to stay in contact, you know where to find me. Thank you…as always.  I wish you all the best.