Life in the Crone Lane

Last week was a really crazy, busy week at work. I'd had the previous week off work for vacation and I was a total slug lazy bum the whole week. I didn't plan anything in particular that week except, well, basically whatever I wanted. I stayed up late (because I am a night owl), I slept in, I swam, I napped, I played in Second Life.

Of course that meant getting up to go to work on Monday was a real bitch. And I came back to insanity of course. One of the difficulties of being in management is the buck stops on your desk. There is only one desk higher than mine and that is the CEO. But thankfully the week is over and I am sitting here on a beautiful Saturday morning enjoying the peace and quiet here.

I left a difficult marriage in March and moved into this wonderful 1 bedroom apartment and am living alone for the first time in my life. My kids are grown and living on their own. Not too successfully sometimes but they at least are not living under my roof. There is a reason, you see, I chose a 1-bedroom apartment! It's really small but I love it. It's just enough for me.

In the few months since I've been separated from my husband we've gotten the papers filed and signed and now we just wait for the 6-month waiting period to be over and we will be divorced. California has a long waiting period for divorces, and I didn't realize that other states don't have the same. Most other states you are divorced within 30 days of reaching an agreement. I guess it's the "reaching the agreement" part that can take some time. However, my soon-to-be ex's and my divorce was really simple. We had nothing to divide and no children to worry about. We'd been married six years and for a variety of reasons, I had to get out. He had become increasingly verbally abusive, moody and difficult to live with. And for my own mental health I had to get out.

You know what is really interesting is the history behind the apartment we used to live in. I don't know if you believe in such things, but I do believe there was a ghostly presence of some kind that was in the 2nd bedroom. Now, before you navigate away from this page in disgust let me tell you the story.

My ex had the second bedroom as his "den"...he had his computer in there, etc. and would spend quite a bit of time in there. He had issues already with depression and anxiety and was on meds for them. We certainly were already teetering on the edge of something because his unpredictable behavior (moodiness, etc) was already a problem. But when we moved into that apartment, just about a year before I finally had to leave, he would be in a good mood when I got home from work and then after dinner he would go into his "den" and spend two or three hours (yes by then we weren't spending much time together but that's another post). After spending a couple hours in there, he would come out loaded for bear. He would be snappy, growly, critical, mean, and just downright nasty. It was like living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It was awful.

Well get this. Recently my oldest son began dating a woman that he's been friends with for several years. She and one of his other friends used to be married and they would all hang out together. Well, now that they are dating, my son's girlfriend and I have become good friends (p.s. I hope he marries her; she's wonderful!). One day they came over and helped me move a bunch of boxes into a storage unit I rented, and afterward I took them out to lunch. At lunch, we were discussing various things, and the subject came up of the apartment we used to live in. Turns out that she and her ex husband had lived in that very same apartment! She said that she felt there was something scary and evil in that room, and that a roommate they had that lived in that room became strange after living in there. After they kicked her out for her behavior, they made that second bedroom their music room, and her husband started hanging out in there and HE started getting strange, to the point where they finally separated and she had to get out. She said that his behavior was increasingly strange and she couldn't take it anymore.

One of her girlfriends and she were in that room one day, she said, and they felt something not right in there. They shouted "show yourself!" to the entity and she said they felt a cold rush of air and they ran out of the room. Makes me shiver thinking about it, and the hair is standing up on my arms.

Now, how weird is that?!? I would love to know the history of that apartment. I have to wonder if it turns over a lot, and if people who live there have relationship problems. It's just too strange and too coincidental. I mean, I have a feeling that my ex and I would have split anyway, but he got way worse after we moved in there. He was broody, moody, and impossible to live with. Not that I was so perfect, but you know what I mean. I didn't hang out in that room at all. I never liked being in there; it always gave me the creeps.

So hopefully you don't think I've lost my mind. Just a little piece of interesting information. :)

One of the things I've struggled with over the years is my weight. As a child and young adult, I never had to worry about such things. I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted to and I never gained weight. Everyone kept telling me that I should develop good eating habits, because eventually that would change as I grew older, had children, etc.

I didn't listen. I was young; I thought I'd be that way forever. Just like everything else, that was something to think about when I got "old" ... you know, like 35 or 40 or something! Wow...who could ever imagine! Artlessly, I ate my way through my teen and young adult years.

Then I had my first baby at age 25. Second child at age 29. Then I hit 30. Then 40. Then *gulp* 50. Slowly over the years (more quickly over the past five years or so) the weight crept on. Then I'd diet some and get it down. And life happened. Divorce. Single. Remarried. Divorce again. Single. Remarried again. Divorce again and not giving a flying crap what I looked like because I was NEVER EVER EVER GOING TO DATE AGAIN, LET ALONE GET MARRIED!!

Now, I have an extra 120 lbs. on my frame. I do have a large frame and am tall. But still... 120 lbs. That's like another small person. Ever since I turned 50 and hit menopause, the weight is settling around my waist and belly. My thighs... OMG my thighs and ass. Let's not even go there. My arms are like bat wings flapping in the breeze. I've not worn a sleeveless top in public in ... oh... 15 years. Swimsuits have become swim dresses in a lame attempt to hide my midlife spread. When I sit down my stomach pooches out and I get odd looks from people who can't decide if I am fat or pregnant...and at my obvious age they can't imagine that I am pregnant. The rolls of fat around my waist, back and sides have become a horrible embarrassment to me.

I had an ah-ha moment the other day. I have self-diagnosed myself as having body dysmorphic disorder, usually associated with anorexia or bulimia, where the person doesn't see themselves in the mirror as skinny, they see themselves as fat, and thus keep dieting down to unhealthy weight levels. For me, it's the opposite. For years I would look in the mirror and not see a fat person. A little overweight maybe, but I never saw myself as "fat." Then I would see photographs of myself next to other people and think, "Wow that 10 lbs the camera put on me sure looks like a lot!" I fooled myself into thinking that my weight issues weren't really "that bad" despite what the scale says.

Well.

I went to a store the other day and tried on clothes. The size made me cringe, but I tried them on because the store was having a sale. I got into the dressing room and tried on one of the outfits. I looked in the mirror. The scales fell away from my eyes and I saw myself....really SAW myself...for the first time.

Dear God. I am fat.

Not plump, not "overweight"... but obese. Not morbidly obese, according to the weight charts, but teetering on the edge. I can no longer comfortably fit into airplane seats and forget going on rides at amusement parks. I was horrified.

I quickly re-dressed and exited the dressing room as quickly as I could, shoving the hangers of clothing at the attendant, and shaking my head mutely when she asked if anything worked. I left the store before the tears began to fall. I sat in my car and cried like a baby. I am fat!

The unintentionally cruel things that thin people say who have never had a weight problem include the classic, "Well, just don't eat so much!"

Oh, if it were only that easy. People who have never had a weight problem don't understand what it's like to struggle to not eat. Food has been my crutch that I've used for many, many years. My parents used food as a reward. Cookies, cupcakes, dining out, an ice cream cone were all rewards and celebrations of acomplishments, and offered as comfort when something upsetting happened. We'd go out for sundaes after a music concert, or to celebrate a good grade. Dessert was withheld when we were "bad." I shaped my food choices around my behavior and carried that into adulthood. When I wanted to feel good about myself, to get those warm fuzzy "I am worthy" feelings, I'd shovel in cake, cookies, ice cream (ohhhhhhh ice cream is my all time favorite thing), fast food burgers and fries, potato chips. Nearly every food I like is bad for me. The fruits I like are "higher calories" like grapes. The vegetables I like are starchy, like corn.

When I look at the food lists for diets, I nearly start crying. I like very few of the foods on them. They say that my palate will change as I begin to eat right. I don't WANT it to change. I HATE those foods I think to myself. Even weight watchers, which says that you can have any food you want, just don't go above your point count. Well, the point counts for the foods I like are very high, and I am out of points by lunch time. So, on weight watchers if you don't want to go hungry make wiser food choices. And now we're full circle back to the list of foods I don't like.

*sighs*.

I get anxious when I think about giving up my favorite foods. How will I comfort myself? I think. How will I make myself feel better when I'm down, to bring back those "I am worthy" feelings? How do I prop up my weak self-esteem if I can't eat those unworthy feelings away?

But I have got to do something. Even if I never ever date again or get married again, I can't be this fat. It's embarrassing. I hate it. My normal size is a 14 and my normal weight is 170. Yes I am that tall and my doctor says that would be a perfectly acceptable weight for me. Now that I am pushing that 300 lb mark (my fingers tremble as I type that figure) I am going to end up a stroke victim or a heart attack victim or...worse case scenario...dead before my time.

The thought of the changes I am going to have to make and the foods I will have to give up just about make me sick. I have to change the unhealthy relationship I have with food. I don't want to be this fat anymore. I also fear the changes that I have to make to make it happen.

It is NOT as simple as "just don't eat so much." Anyone who has struggled with food knows this. The billion-dollar weight loss industry knows this. I just wish there were a magic pill that would melt my fat away. By tomorrow.

Wish me luck. :)

It is true that communication between the genders is difficult at best, and impossible at worst. I have read that the whole Mars/Venus thing happens because, essentially, men and women speak so differently they might as well be speaking different languages, as if they were from different planets. This has to do with the fact that women like and need information, and think that men like and need that, too when, in fact, he may be just asking a simple question and wanting a simple answer. Women assume that men are looking for more information (because it is what THEY would want) and give two paragraph answers to what should have been a one-word answer. There is a factoid that states women can speak 20,000 to 24,000 words a day versus a man's top end of 7,000 to 10,000.

No wonder!

This came home very clearly to me the other day, as I was "speaking" (i.e. typing) to a friend online in instant message (IM) the other day. I didn't even realize what had happened until the exchange occurred, and then because it was in written form and I reread it that I realized exactly what I had done. I laughed and laughed about it. It was a classic example of a man asking for a specific piece of information and I assumed that I knew what he REALLY was asking and gave him tons of other detail that probably made his eyes cross in frustration. I eventually answered his question, but he had to wade through a bunch of other information that he hadn't even asked for!

Here's the background: He and I had been talking about setting up a time to chat online, as he is two hours ahead of me. We discussed chatting for a few minutes before I leave for work in the mornings, because I often log onto the computer for a bit before work. I usually log onto the computer after my shower but before I complete my hair and make up, so when he asked this question, in typical Venus fashion, I thought I knew what he was asking.

Him: "What time do you usually log on?"

Me: "Oh, anywhere between 6:30 and 6:45, depending how long it takes me to get my ass out of bed. LOL"

Him: "What time do you leave for work?"

Me: (assuming that he was trying to decide how long we had to chat in the mornings): "Well, the alarm goes off about 6am and then I get up and shower. Sometimes I hit the snooze and I don't actually get out of bed until 6:10 or so. Then after I shower, I grab something to eat and watch the news. So this is why it is sometimes between 6:30 and 6:45 when I actually get online. But I also have to leave time to do my hair and make up, so I generally need to get off the computer around 7:15 or so in order to leave enough time to do that before I have to leave."

**a few moments of puzzled silence ensues.**

(laughing my ass off as I realize what I've done, begin to type the following message to him):

Me: "Oh and I usually leave for work around 7:30, unless I am running late, and in that case I am out the door no later than 7:40.....

At this point I read what I have typed AGAIN and, laughing harder, I deleted the above IM before I sent it and typed:

Me: "I leave for work no later than 7:40am."

His relief was almost palpable. Here he'd asked a simple question: "What time do you leave for work?" and I gave him my whole morning routine, thinking that I knew what he REALLY wanted to know.

But what he really wanted to know? What he, deep down, really and truly wanted to know?

He wanted to know what time I left for work. It really was that simple.

I got the biggest kick out of that, and it drove home what the experts have been saying for years. I will now try to understand that men generally want the answer to their question, not the four paragraph dissertation. And I try to answer simply what they ask. No more, no less. If he wanted to know more, he would have asked.

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Now I'm getting all verklempt! I need a moment. Talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic: The thighmaster was neither thigh nor master. Discuss.

And once again... welcome!